


I Wish He Was Mine, He's Really Divine

by yodasyoyo



Series: Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst, Aromantic Kira, Bisexual Stiles Stilinski, Bullying, Christmas Presents, Coming Out, Derek Hale & Kira Yukimura Friendship, Derek Hale & Laura Hale Are Twins, Derek Wears Glasses, Derek has a stutter, Drunk Stiles, Fluff, Hand Kisses, Happy Ending, Kira is the actual best and it's been a blast writing her, M/M, Nerd Derek, Panic Attack, Peter's a total dick in this, Pining Derek, Pining Stiles, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski Friendship, Shy Derek, Slow Build, Snowball Fights, Stilinski Family Feels, Stuttering, Yule Ball, alcohol use, brief stiles/danny hook up, epistolary sections, hangovers, mentions of Stiles/caitlin and stiles/Heather, pining in the library, sorry about that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:16:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 87,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5271125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yodasyoyo/pseuds/yodasyoyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to 'Wistful Thinking.' so read that first. </p><p>Hogwarts AU. </p><p>Derek has been pining for Stiles Stilinski for years. He never thought he'd actually be in with a chance, but all that's about to change.</p><p>OR: Very slow build Sterek, with nerd!Derek, sort of badboy!Stiles, plenty of pining and a Kira/Derek friendship for the ages.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Haha. So some people asked for a sequel to Wistful Thinking. Here it is. This will be multi-chaptered and will be updated whenever I get a chance (hopefully once a weekish.) Derek and Kira are Hufflepuffs, Laura is a Ravenclaw, Scott and Stiles are in Gryffindor. (Stiles was a total hatstall and chose to be in Gryffindor with Scott. The sorting hat let him.)
> 
> Points to you if you can tell me which Harry Potter book the title is taken from.
> 
> Edit: For the sake of my sanity, when I imagine this 'verse, Stiles is American and all the other characters are British. I really struggled to write it at first, because I kept trying to justify to myself why there would be year group filled with American kids at Hogwarts. After a while I just said 'fuck it' I'm gonna pretend they're all British except Stiles and get on with my life.

Ugh.

Stiles isn't sure of much, but he knows one thing.

He's never drinking again.

Never.

He cracks an eye open, wincing in pain, head throbbing. There's a hoarse whining sound in the room, a droning noise that just won't stop.

It's making his headache worse.

Seriously- what is that?

Oh, wait...

It's coming from him.

He rolls onto his front and buries his head into a large fluffy pillow.

He doesn't remember much about last night.

Well- he remembers Gryffindor winning against Ravenclaw in the Quidditch match.

He remembers feeling high on life, fucking _invincible_   as the team made their way back to an inter-house party in the Gryffindor common room. 

He remembers telling Scott that this was gonna be the night. This was _the_ night. The night he asks Lydia Martin to the Yule Ball.

He's been obsessing over her for ages and rumor has it she's just broken up with that _dick,_ Jackson.

Stiles had been put in Gryffindor for a reason, right?

So, time to nut up and get with the asking.

Time to woo.

It isn't like he has nothing to offer. He's captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

He's pretty good looking.

He hasn't got a bad brain. Okay, he doesn't try as hard as he _could_ do at school, but... whatever, he isn't stupid.

That's not what's important anyway.

He _sees_ her.

He really _sees_ her and that's what makes the difference.

At least that's what he'd told himself when he found her in the Gryffindor common room after the match.

He'd flirted at first and she'd rolled her eyes, but then he'd managed to get her on her own, managed to find a little nook behind the heavy drapes that hung by the castle windows.

Thinking about it now he groans, and buries his head under the pillow. He can still feel the sting of embarrassment.

_Fuck._

He loves her, okay?

He really loves her.

She's just so many contradictions all bundled up together. So soft and warm, and hard and fierce, and just...

Last night he'd poured his fucking heart out to her and watched her get steadily more uncomfortable.

Her mouth a tight line, arms crossed defensively across her chest. Her eyes gave her away though.

She pitied him.

Not in some horrible patronizing way but it still stung. She hadn't realized he was serious. That's what she'd said.

She hadn't realized he really liked her.

She'd thought that when he flirted with her he was just trying to annoy Jackson. Just trying to have fun.

She'd thought it was a joke.

She doesn't feel the same way, but she hopes this won't ruin their friendship.

He'd protested and she'd said, “Stiles, I'm sorry, but how was I supposed to know you were serious? You don't take anything seriously.”

She'd ducked out from under the curtains then and gone to find her friends, shooting him an apologetic glance.

He'd stood behind that curtain and let his head thud back against the cool stone wall of the castle, blinking back tears. He can feel them pricking at his eyes again, even now.

Is that how people see him?

Is he a joke?

He's funny sure... and, okay, maybe he comes across as a bit of a slacker, but... really?

Last night it had been too much to process, and he'd disappeared upstairs to his room and swiped the bottle of Ogdens that he snuck in a while back.

It all gets a bit fuzzy after that, but he remembers thinking that he'll save the existential crisis for tomorrow, that tonight, he drinks to forget.

That's pretty much the last coherent memory he has until waking up this morning.

After that it's all kind of a blur. He thinks there might have been something to do with rabbits though?

Maybe he was trying to pull them out of a hat.

Who the fuck knows.

Just the, the door to the room swings open and Scott wanders in.

“Heeeey, buddy,” he says, “you awake yet?”

“Skrrgllnrff." Stiles might be awake, but he's not verbal yet.

Scott sits down on the end of the bed. “Here,” he says, “I snuck down to the hospital wing and got this for you when no-one was looking.” He holds out a bottle of Hieronymous Hinklebottoms Hangover cure. “Guess the teachers must keep it down there or something.”

Stiles squints out at it from behind the pillow, then sits up in the bed gingerly and reaches out a hand and takes the bottle. The stopper is stuck, and he winces when he finally manages to force it out with a 'pop', that nearly sends potion all over his sheets. He just manages to avert disaster but all the sudden movement makes his stomach lurch. Sighing, he takes a long sip of potion and shudders. It tastes awful.

Scott eyes him, skeptically. “Shouldn't you, I dunno, measure that out first or something?”

Stiles shrugs and hands it back to him. “S'fine,” he responds, thickly. His tongue feels like carpet and his head is so muzzy, except for the sharp, pounding pain just behind his eyeballs. Then suddenly, it's like there's a thin trickle of pure light pouring in at the base of his skull, spreading outward, clearing the cobwebs. He shivers as it spreads. His head clears, the pain dissipates.

Scott beams at him. “Feeling better?”

Stiles nods the edge of his mouth quirking upward in a lame attempt at a smile. “Yeah, I guess.”

“What's wrong?” Scott's face falls.

Stiles throws himself back on the bed.

“Lydia,” he scowls. “I asked her out last night. She's broken up with Jackson again and it just seemed right, y'know?”

 “Yeah?” Scott's gaze skitters away, he shifts and looks down at his hands. “It didn't work out then.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nope,” he replies, popping the 'P.' He doesn't want to talk about it yet. Scott is like his brother but... “Fuck, I don't even remember what happened after that. I mean, I remember getting the firewhisky but then it's all a bit of a blur.”

“Sorry, I didn't really see, you just kinda left. I was busy talking to Allison," Scott grimaces, "and when I looked round, you were gone.” 

“Are you two getting back together?” 

Scott shakes his head, “Nah, I don't think she wants to.” He fiddles listlessly with the edge of Stiles blanket.

“Aw man. I'm sorry. That sucks.” Stiles sits up a little straighter, and slaps Scott on the back. “I think I've still got some firewhisky left if you want it?”

“It's Saturday lunchtime. I don't think that's a good idea.” Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but Scott continues, “Besides, not all of us want to get so drunk we have to be carried home and put to bed.” He looks pointedly at Stiles.

“What?” Stiles squawks, “I never – that didn't happen.”

Scott smirks, saying nothing.

“You didn't,” Stiles says, again. “I'd remember it.”

“I didn't,” Scott agrees, “Derek did.”

Stiles stares at him through narrowed eyes. “Who?”

“Derek,” Scott says, patiently. “Derek Hale, the Hufflepuff prefect. We have Transfiguration with him.”

Stiles looks at him blankly. “Oh Gooood, really? The dorky guy with the glasses and the wand up his butt?”

Scott shrugs.

“I don't believe you,” Stiles says, “there's no way he could carry me.”

“He helped you walk back to the common room,” Scott allows, “and that wasn't easy because you could barely stand. Then we both carried you up here together because, and I quote, 'Stairs are evil and no good can come of them.' Your words, buddy, not mine.”

“I was not that drunk!” Stiles protests.

“You got your wand out to avada kedavra them,” Scott says. “You tried to perform a killing curse on some _stairs,_ Stiles, and then you tripped over and nearly brained yourself on a table. After that you just lay on the floor and refused to move.”

Stiles covers his face with his hands. “Anything else?” 

“You told me that you loved me, like a _lot_ , but that's cool. I knew that already.”

Stiles sags in relief. “Is that all?”

"Uh," Scott wrinkles his nose, “You told Derek that he had pretty eyes.”

Stiles peeks out from beneath his fingers, feeling vaguely horrified. “What now?”

“You said his eyes were pretty, or no... actually you said they were beautiful.”

“Beautiful?” Stiles says flatly, dropping his hands. “I told dorky Derek he has beautiful eyes? No.”

Scott nods, “Yup. And that you thought his teeth were adorable, like a liddle widdle bunny wabbit.”

“That isn't-" Stiles can feel himself blushing. "I didn't- you're just saying stuff to mess with me now.”

 “Really not.” Scott grins, eyes bright with laughter.

“Oh God. I am never going to live this down.” Stiles says, head sinking into his hands.

Scott swallows, “Yeah. That's not the end.”

“What?” Stiles explodes, “What else could I possibly have done? Piss myself? Strip off and run naked through the hallways? Vomit on his shoes? What?”

Scott winces, bracing himself like he's preparing for a crash. “You kinda asked Derek out.”

 “Wh-What now?” Stiles' jaw drops.

“You asked Derek out,” Scott repeats, “and you wouldn't let him leave until he promised to go with you.”

Stiles' mouth works soundlessly for a moment. He literally cannot think of a thing to say. Finally he asks, “Wha- What did he say?” 

“He kinda had to say yes. You wouldn't let go of him until he did.” Scott's face is a mask of sympathy, although whether it's directed at Stiles, Derek, or the general horror of the situation, is impossible to tell.

Stiles scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck,” he says, “Well that's just. Fuck.”

He is never going to drink again.

Never.

 

o0o


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek doesn't see Stiles again until Sunday breakfast, a full thirty two hours and thirty three minutes after he helped him into bed on Friday night.
> 
> Not that he's counting.

Derek doesn't see Stiles again until Sunday breakfast; a full thirty-two hours and thirty-three minutes after he helped him into bed on Friday night.

Not that he's counting.  
  
He hasn't been looking for him at mealtimes or anything, either.

He definitely didn't notice the fact that Stiles was absent from _all_ the meals in the Great Hall on Saturday.  
  
He didn't sit and stare bereftly at the Gryffindor table on Saturday lunchtime until Kira, his best friend and fellow Hufflepuff prefect, asked him what was wrong.

Scott McCall did not look over knowingly at dinner that same day and smile at him sympathetically, and, more to the point, when that didn't happen, Derek definitely did _not_ scowl and then blush up to the roots of his hair.

So everything is fine. He's fine. It's all _fine._

He _did not_ toss and turn fretfully in his bed on Saturday night caught between terror and elation at the idea of Stiles going on a date with him.

Stiles was drunk, he probably doesn't remember it, so there's no point getting excited. It's pointless to hope and he is _fine_ with that.

He doesn't spend his sleepless night mentally planning out the route they're going to take through Hogsmeade on the date that they aren't going to have.

Neither does he get up early on Sunday morning, sick with nervous anticipation, make his way down to the common room and spend ten minutes listlessly doodling hearts on the parchment that he's supposed to be using for his Potions homework.

He has not named their future children, or the dog that they're going to get.

That would be ridiculous.  
  
He has done none of those things.  
  
None of them.

At least, no-one can prove he's done them, so his dignity is still intact.

Go Derek.

So, when Stiles arrives in the Great Hall for Sunday breakfast, Derek's jaw doesn't drop, his heart doesn't stutter in his chest and he definitely, _definitely_ doesn't stare at him with a lovesick expression on his face.

He does not.

He just _happens_ to be looking that way.

His expression is one of vague disinterest.

Kira reaches her index finger under his chin and pushes his mouth shut. “So, y'gonna tell me what's going on?” she asks, through a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

Derek looks down and invests all his energy and concentration in serving himself bacon.

“Derek,” she says, gently.

He swallows, clears his throat.

“N-nothing. It's nothing.” He grabs a couple of slices of toast and butters them with unwarranted aggression.

She sighs.

He makes himself look at her, forces himself to smile.

Her nose wrinkles thoughtfully, “Uh huh. Nothing. Really. Is that why Stiles is staring at you?”

Derek's head whips round so fast, the bones in his neck crunch. “Wha-?”

Stiles isn't staring. He's talking to Scott and pouring himself some cereal. Derek turns back in his chair and glares balefully at Kira. She grins, eyes sparkling.

“I hate you,” Derek says, slamming the bacon on top of his buttered toast. “I hate you s-so much.”

She pats him on the arm, “Aw, Derek, we both know that's not true.”

 

o0o

 

Stiles stays in bed most of the day Saturday. His hangover is gone but, _Merlin's beard,_   his stomach is feeling queasy.

Even the thought of food is just... ugh.

Still, by Sunday he's slept it all off and he even joins the other Gryffindors for breakfast. He takes a seat next to Scott and resolutely does  _not_ look at Lydia, even though he's pretty sure she tries to catch his eye once or twice.

He isn't trying to be mean.

He's just a little bit heartbroken. It's not his fault if he isn't ready to bounce around in excitement now he knows for sure he's they're only ever going to be friends.

Instead he talks to Scott about Quidditch with such single minded determination that almost everyone has left the Great Hall by the time he's finished his breakfast.

It's not until right near the end that Scott ruins things for him by leaning over and whispering loudly, “What are you gonna do about Derek, dude?”

Stiles grimaces, “What? Derek? Nothing. Why?”

“He's kinda looking over here man, you should probably say _something_.”

“He isn't... he isn't seriously expecting me to go on a _date_ with him," Stiles rolls his eyes. "I asked him to while I was blackout drunk.”

Scott breaks out his best reproachful, puppy dog eyes. “Dude,” he says, “he helped you out. If another prefect had found you, or a teacher, you likely would have ended up in detention.”

“So you're suggesting I should go on a pity date with him? He probably doesn't even like guys like that. You said yourself, I had to force him.”

Looking down at his plate, Scott pushes the food round it anxiously, “I don't know. I think you should at least say thanks.”

Scott is a better person than he is.

That's all there is to it.

Sighing, Stiles glances over at the Hufflepuff table. Derek meets his eyes for a second, but then scowls, ducks his head and looks resolutely at his plate. The tips of his ears are pink.

Stiles sighs again, noisily.

“Fine,” he concedes, “I guess I could go and say thank-you.”

Scott beams at him, and Stiles shakes his head ruefully. Even Filch isn't immune to Scott's special brand of puppy dog eyes and sunshine smile. Standing, Stiles leans over the table, grabs a final slice of toast and takes a large bite.

“The things I do for you,” he says, through a mouthful of food. He shakes his head again and wanders over to the Hufflepuff table.

He doesn't really know what he's going to say.

_Sorry I asked you out?_

_Sorry I was drunk?_

_Thanks for not reporting me, or docking points from Gryffindor?_

Actually that last one is probably a good place to start.

He feels kind of weird doing it though. He hasn't really had so much as a conversation with Derek before.

Not a proper one anyway.

In seven years they've never really crossed paths. Sure, when Gryffindor and Hufflepuff have shared lessons together they've been in the same class, but- well-there's nothing else to say really.

Maybe one time Stiles made a joke about Derek's glasses and he stammered, blushed, and dropped his transfiguration notes all over the floor.

That's it.

In seven years.

Derek's not seriously expecting a date, is he?

Stiles cracks his neck and pulls his shoulders back as he approaches. He plasters what he hopes is a winning smile across his face.

Derek's not looking up, he seems to be staring at his plate with the kind of intensity that's usually reserved for, well... something more interesting than an empty plate. However, the girl Derek's sitting with, Kira- Stiles is pretty sure her name's Kira- looks up and smiles brightly. She's actually kind of cute.

“Hi,” Stiles says.

“Hey Stiles!” Kira replies, with a sunshine grin that could rival Scott's.

Running his tongue nervously over his top lip, he clears his throat. “Do you mind if I-?”

She gestures to the empty share opposite, “No not at all.”

He drops into it,  one arm draped casually over the back. His eyes flick over to Derek, who's fiddling with his spoon and still hasn't looked up.

_Merlin._

This is going _well._

It isn't awkward at  _all._

He'll have to _thank_ Scott for this later.

“So...” he begins, “Derek and Kira, how are things?”

Kira looks at him, amused, “They're good, Stiles. How are things with you?”

Stiles shrugs, “Okay, I guess.”

“Good,” Kira nods. “Congratulations on the Quidditch result last Friday.”

Stiles grins at her, genuinely this time. “Thanks. Were you at the game?”

“Yeah, of course,” she says, “Derek and I always go when you- ow!” She rubs her arm, shooting a reproachful glance at Derek, who's finally looked up from his plate and is glaring murderously at her. His ears are crimson. “We just... really like Quidditch,” Kira finishes awkwardly. “Never miss a game.”

“Nice.” Stiles watches them both carefully. “Right well...” He balances on the back legs of the chair, trying to sound casual. “Derek, dude, I wanted to thank you for Friday night. That was, uh, pretty nice of you.”

Finally, Derek looks up at him and nods, his glasses slide down his nose. “S'fine,” he replies, and God, Derek's blush has spread from the tips of his ears across his cheeks. Stiles suddenly feels some sympathy for Lydia _._ Is this what it's like to be the object of someone's affections? Because it is awkward as _fuck._

It seems pretty clear that Derek sort of... might... possibly... like him. Maybe? He might actually  _want_ to go on that date.  _Shit._

He isn't quite sure how to handle this. For one thing he knows nothing about Derek, for another he's still smarting from Lydia's rejection.

Stiles watches him for a moment and Derek looks back, blinking nervously behind those thick-rimmed glasses.

He wasn't really planning on going on a date with Derek, but it _really_  wouldn't be fair to even suggest it if the guy actually  _likes_ him.

That would be kind of an asshole thing to do. Stiles is aware he can be a bit of a dick, but he isn't _that_ guy.

Yeah- perhaps it would be easier to pretend he doesn't remember making the offer.

Which he doesn't. He only knows about it at all because Scott told him.

So... yeah.

That's probably best.

Derek's still looking at him, and Stiles smiles grimly.  _Fuck_ this is awkward. 

“Okay then,” Stiles says, he stands abruptly and scrubs a hand over the back of his neck. “So... that's good. We're good. You're good right? We're all good? Well, I uh... I guess I'll see you around. Thanks again.” He turns away trying to ignore the little stab of guilt he feels at the crestfallen expression on Derek's face.

 

o0o

 


	3. Chapter 3

“Dude!”

It's Monday morning. Stiles cracks open an eye and sees Scott leaning over him, his hair rumpled, tie askew, shirt untucked. He looks panicked as he reaches forward and shakes Stiles shoulder, eyes frantic.

“Wha-?” Stiles blinks and rubs his eyes.

“We're gonna be late. You already missed breakfast. You can't be late, man. Professor Andrews will kill you.”

Stiles sits up, disorientated. “Fuck, I slept through breakfast?” He scrambles out bed and starts pulling on his uniform.

Scott shrugs, “Sorry, dude. I tried to wake you when I went down, but you wouldn't move. I brought you this back though.” He holds out a napkin with two limp pieces of buttered toast in it. “It isn't much, but...” he trails off guiltily.

Stiles grins at him. “Thanks man, you're the best.”

Stiles pulls his school sweater on. It's a little small, the elbows are worn, and there's a hole near the shoulder. He could really do with a new one, but that's not going to happen any time soon. He takes a look in the dorm room mirror, runs a hand through his hair and rolls up the sleeves, loosens his tie, trying to make it work.  Ah... fuck it.

Scott watches him, before saying carefully, “How are you feeling about- y'know..." _the whole_ Lydia _thing_.

Stiles sighs and rubs a hand over the back of his neck. He doesn't know what to say. There's nothing _to_ say, except that he's been rejected by the girl he's loved since he was eleven and he's heartbroken. A sour feeling of embarrassment and self pity settles in his stomach. He grimaces, “Okay, I guess.”

“Lydia asked where you were at breakfast. I think she was worried about you,” Scott says, patting him on the back. “I'm sorry it didn't work out, dude.”

Stiles shrugs and takes a piece of toast, cramming it in his mouth. “I'll get over it,” he says, attempting an easy smile. It's obvious from Scott's expression that he doesn't buy it.

He grabs his fraying messenger bag and they run through the castle corridors, worn shoes squeaking against the flagstones. Everyone else is already seated by the time they arrive. Stiles' seat is two away from Lydia. She's on his left, and even as he rushes to his seat, he can't help noticing how her strawberry blonde hair catches the pale winter sunshine streaming through the windows, making it gleam like spun copper. She looks up at him when he enters and he offers her a weak smile before collapsing into his chair in a relieved heap. He roots through his bag for his battered copy of _A Guide to Advanced Transfiguration._

He doesn't know what to say to Lydia, he feels awkward and kind of stupid. He put himself out there, and it wasn't what she wanted, now he doesn't quite know how to reclaim their friendship. He sneaks a glance at her through his lashes. She's sitting primly, a falcon feather quill in one hand, already making copious notes from the textbook. The teacher isn't even here yet. Why does he find that so _fucking_ adorable?

His heart clenches in his chest and his gaze skitters off round the room, looking anywhere but at her. That's when he remembers...

Derek.

Derek is also in this class. He's diagonally across from Stiles on the right near the front. Not that Stiles has really paid him too much attention before.

Now, though, he has an inkling of Derek's feelings, and he's curious. He can't help watching Derek out of the corner of his eye. He can't help noticing the way Derek's glasses slide down his nose as he leans forward to write on his parchment, the way he gnaws at his lip in concentration as his long fingers turn the pages of the textbook. He can't help wondering what _Derek_ sees in him, because honestly? They would make a really odd couple.

Derek shifts in his seat and licks a finger, turning a page in his textbook. He doesn't look back at Stiles once throughout the entire lesson.

 

 

o0o

 

 

_'...how was I supposed to know you were serious? You don't take anything seriously.'_

Her words are still rattling around in his head a couple of days later as he sits at the Gryffindor table, pushing his food round his plate. He isn't hungry.

The more he thinks about those words the more mortified and angry he feels, because he can take stuff seriously. He takes _her_ seriously.

He really _does_.

He wants to try and talk to her about it, to pick at that last conversation like a scab, but he doesn't. She isn't interested. She wants his friendship, he can see it in the uncertain way she glances at him sometimes, like she's willing him to talk to her, but is worried what he's going to say. He could never bring himself to her hurt her, so he tries to be friendly when they're in a group, but avoids one on one time with her.

He isn't ready for her friendship yet. He isn't ready to stop being in love with her.

Ugh.

Everything is just so fucking awkward. If he had a time turner he'd go back a week and save himself a _lot_ of heartbreak.

He should just go out and find someone else. Blow off some steam for a bit.

Ironically, before he put his feelings for Lydia out there, that wasn't an issue at all. He's never had a problem scratching that particular itch. Caitlin officially popped his cherry nearly two years ago and is always up for screwing around with him, Danny's always good for a quick fumble in the restricted section of the library after hours as well, and then there's Heather, who he's had a friends with benefits type thing with for a few months now.

They're all casual though.

Physical.

He doesn't want something that's _just_ physical, he wants someone who gets him.

He wants someone who _sees_ him.

He wants someone who'll take him seriously.

He really thought Lydia _did._

The sound of raucous laughter breaks him out of his reverie and he glances up.

It's coming from Laura Hale, vivavious, full-figured and outspoken, the complete antithesis of her twin. She's squeezed herself in between Derek and Kira on the Hufflepuff table and she and Kira are laughing hysterically about something. Derek's sitting next to them with a scowl on his face.

_Derek._

Stiles' gaze snags on him for a moment, watches as he peers peevishly at Laura, his mouth tightening in a moue of annoyance. Those ridiculous glasses are slipping down his nose again, and he has an ink smudge on his cheek.

As if he can sense Stiles' gaze on him Derek looks across suddenly meeting Stiles' eyes. They sit there for a long moment staring at each other across the great hall. Stiles smiles, small and tentative. Derek ducks his head and stares at his plate, and once again the tips of his ears are pink.

 

 

o0o

 

 

Derek's a creature of habit.

He likes routine. It's comforting. Let's him feel like he's in control of things.

So, every morning like clockwork Derek gets up at five-thirty, changes into his sweatpants and t-shirt and jogs around the lake.

When he returns he has a shower, dresses, and meets Kira in the common room so that they can go down to breakfast together.

He always has a bowl of porridge, a slice of toast, a piece of fruit and a glass of orange juice for breakfast, except on Sundays when he treats himself to bacon.

He's punctual to every class, he does all his homework the day he gets it, and he spends his spare time in the evenings writing and editing articles for the Beacon, except on those evenings when he's scheduled to patrol the corridors as part of his prefect duties.

He's in bed with his lights out by ten thirty most nights.

Kira says he's an old soul, with a look of fond exasperation.

Laura says he's boring and needs to get out more. He hates Laura a little bit sometimes.

Now, she sits crossed legged on the end of his bed, rolling up the sleeves of her extra large Chudley Cannon's hoodie in a way that says she means business. “Come on, Der, it's a great idea."

“It isn't a...” he sighs. The thing is, it _is_ a pretty good idea and he knows it, “I-I don't want to.”

She pouts, “Why not? You spent the last editorial meeting complaining that we needed story ideas for the next issue. This'll be cool. We interview some of the seventh year students, find out what they're going to do when they leave. Why they chose the final year subjects they did. It'd almost be like a yearbook type thing. I'll let you interview me if you want.” She grins up at him hopefully.

He shoots her a dry look and then glances down at the list of potential interviewees on the piece of paper in his hand, biting his lip. Laura had thought about this, that much was obvious and it _is_ a good idea. It's just... there, third on the list of potential candidates... _Stiles Stilinski._

“I d-don't... I just...” he mumbles.

“I get it, you're the editor, it's _your_ baby, but it could be really awesome. You could get Boyd to take some photographs, you could profile a couple of students in each issue. Everyone likes seeing their name in print.”

He runs a hand through his hair and stares morosely at Stiles' name.

"Oh, God, buck up, Der. We're _Hales._ " He hates it when she says that. Like he needs reminding of what _that_ means. Like it would _work._

He glares at her and she reaches out and puts a hand on his arm. “Okay, I know, I sounded like our mother, I heard it too. Look," her expression softens. "I thought this would be a fun thing. You look like I've just kicked a basket full of pygmy puffs. What is it, baby bro?”

“Y-you're t-two minutes older than me,” he scowls, sinking down on to the bed next to her.

“Ah, but I have managed to cram so much _in_ to that two minutes.” She nudges his side playfully. “Come on. What's up with you? You've been out of sorts all week.”

Derek rests his head on her shoulder. So far he's only told Kira about the whole Stiles asking him out débâcle. He hadn't planned on telling Laura, because, well... it's _embarrassing_ and he doesn't need to give any more ammunition to the girl who already has access to his baby pictures and a whole bunch of other mortifying childhood memories.

She leans her head against his, wraps an arm round his shoulder and squeezes gently.

She smells like home.

Derek sighs. “There's a b-boy I like,” he mumbles, “he... I..." He clears his throat and starts again. "F-For one moment, I thought he might like me back but-”

“Was he mean to you, Der? Do I need to go and kick his ass?” Her grip tightens on his shoulder, fingers digging in. She'd do it to. She can be _terrifying._

Derek shakes his head, “N-No. He wasn't, it just... it was really stupid and I'm just _being_ stupid. It was never going to happen. So...”

She looks at him searchingly,“Hey, if he can't see how wonderful you are, he's an idiot,” she says softly. She reaches over and plucks the crumpled list of names out of his hand. “Is that why you don't like this idea?” she asks, “because you don't want to have to talk to him?”

Derek shrugs, and Laura purses her lips, “You realize _you_ don't have to do all the interviews, you could divide the interviews up between all of us and just make sure it's not you that has to interview _him_.”

He exhales, “I... uh... guess.”

The thing is he doesn't want anyone else to interview Stiles.

If anyone's going to do that, he wants it to be him.

Laura's right though, she could do it, or Erica. Erica would do it in a heartbeat, she'd be good at it too. He can picture it in his mind's eye. Erica leaning over Stiles with her bright red lipstick, her shirt unbuttoned to reveal ample cleavage as she grins wolfishly at him. If he sends Erica to do that interview, Stiles will probably fall in love with _her_. Who wouldn't? Erica's great. He should just accept his fate now, embrace it even.

He smiles at Laura weakly. “Y-you're right. It's a good idea. We'll d-do it.”

She fist pumps the air, “I knew it.”

Even as she says it his shoulders slump in defeat. Laura takes one look at his face stops celebrating, tugging him in for a warm hug, and he may not always appreciate her, but he has to admit, she gives great cuddles. “Hey,” she says, seriously, “if you want I could set you up with someone. Sometimes the best way to get over somebody is to put yourself out there a bit.”

He pushes his glasses up his nose and huffs out a sigh. “That sounds like a terrible idea, what if I hurt someone's feelings?”

“I'm not saying you have to propose to them Der, just go on a date. Experience life a little bit. Relax. Be casual.”

He shifts uncomfortably, face burning and clears his throat carefully, “I'm not sure I'm really built like that. I'm not a c-casual, person.”

Laura sighs and hugs him a little tighter, “I know, bro, I know, but if you change your mind, let me know, yeah?”

He isn't going to change his mind. He's going to be miserably in love with Stiles Stilinski until the day he dies.

 

 

o0o

 


	4. Chapter 4

Derek decides to sleep on it. All of it.

    * His feelings for Stiles.
    * Laura's idea about interviewing seventh year students as part of an ongoing series for the Beacon.
    * His unrequited feelings for Stiles.
    * Laura's suggestion that he go on a date with someone. _(Who Laura? Who?_ )
    * His horribly unrequited feelings for Stiles.



He's going to sleep on it all because that's supposed to make things better isn't it? Or give you some perspective or something like that.

 

-

 

He's running late for his Transfiguration lesson. He can't find his textbook and he swears he put it in his bag, but it isn't there now. He searches and searches but it's nowhere to be found and fuck it, if he doesn't leave now he's going to be late. He doesn't know where Kira's gone and he hasn't got time to find her, so he sprints through the corridors, anxiety gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He can't be late. He just _can't._

When he gets to the classroom, he bursts through the door in a panic, but it's empty.

There's nobody there.

He stares at his watch, and then back at the room, blinking in confusion.

“Hey,” says a voice from behind him.

Derek spins round.

Stiles leans in the doorway, an insouciant grin on his face.

“Uh-hey!” Derek stutters out. “Wh-where is everyone?”

Stiles gaze drags over him, lingering, and then he shrugs, “Who gives a shit?”

Derek looks around. “Uh- me? I-I d-do,” he says awkwardly. “What h-happened? H-Has class been c-cancelled?” He reaches for his bag, about to sift through it for his class schedule. Does he even have the right day?

Stiles straightens up languidly and takes a step toward him. "Derek,” he says, voice pitched low and filthy.

Derek doesn't look up, but his heart feels like it's about to pound out of his chest, he can feel his ears turning red and his hands are shaking as he rifles through his bag.

“Derek,” Stiles says again, in that same low voice. He steps forward until he's right in Derek's personal space.

Derek glances up, Stiles is so close and he can't help staring, he thinks he may have forgotten how to breathe. He blinks, his breath hitches in his throat, trapped there, as Stiles raises a hand and brushes his fingertips tenderly along Derek's jaw line.

Derek shivers, closing his eyes, “Stiles? Wh-What are you-?” he manages, brokenly.

“Ssh, Derek, just relax,” Stiles whispers, leaning in to brush a kiss against his lips. “Don't question it, just enjoy it.”

There's a low moan, Derek's pretty sure it comes from him and then Stiles reaches out, grabs a fistful of Derek's robe and pulls him in. Derek goes willingly, mouth opening eagerly as he sinks into it. He isn't sure how or why this is happening, but, oh god, it feels so good, and he's so turned on already, just from this, just from a kiss. He just wants to rub himself all over Stiles, all over him, right here outside the classroom. He wants to remember this moment, he wants to drink it all in, because Stiles is here and he wants Derek and...

Derek's eyes flutter open.

There's a flash of copper hair and a wide, dimpled grin. Lydia Martin pulls back from him, and Derek blinks in confusion, slapping a hand to his mouth in shock.

“Three,” she says in a bored voice.

“Three what?” he asks, still fumbling and confused.

She purses her lips and starts to apply some lipstick. “Three out of ten,” she says matter of factly. “If you want to get him to notice you, you're going to have to do better than that. I managed to catch his interest without even trying.”

Derek's head feels muddled, “But... Wh-where?”

"Your never going to be good enough, Derek," she says. "Not for him. Not for any of them. It doesn't matter how hard you try. You know that."

"Wh-Where's Stiles?"

This doesn't make sense.

This doesn't...

He turns to look round the corridor, but there is no corridor, there's nothing except darkness and loneliness and a panic that's threatening to overwhelm him. Suddenly he's falling upwards into wakefulness.

 

-

 

It's three-thirty in the morning when he opens his eyes. He's achingly hard and anxious and miserable. He stumbles out of bed and waddles to the bathroom, where he pulls down his pajama pants, gets his hand round his dick and has the most depressing, _functional_ orgasm of his goddamn life. He sinks to the floor afterward resting his head against the cool tiles of the bathroom.

Whoever said that sleeping on things would make it better sits on a throne of lies.

Either that or his subconscious mind hates him.

That's possible too.

 

o0o

 

Stiles is not moping.

He had a conversation with Lydia today in Herbology. Okay, so there were three other people present, but he managed to smile and crack a joke and that is progress people. That is _fucking_ progress.

He thinks he's getting better right up until he arrives for dinner that evening with Scott and sees Lydia sitting next to Jackson, his arm slung possessively around her shoulder.

Scott makes his way to the Gryffindor table, oblivious to Stiles' distress, his eyes are already fixed on the massive plates of food invitingly before them, but Stiles stumbles, his stomach roiling with disappointment and frustration.

She's back with Jackson.

_Jackson._

The guy is such a _dick_. Seriously.

What does she even see in him?

He stands at the entrance to the Great Hall, feet temporarily rooted to the floor.

He can't believe--

He doesn't understand--

Fuck it. He wasn't that hungry anyway.

He turns on his heel and leaves, wanders round the castle aimlessly for a bit.

He can't go back to the common room because Scott will find him and he'll have to explain himself, and he doesn't need that shit right now.

He knows on some level he's being irrational, unreasonable, even. This is about Lydia's choice. If she doesn't choose him, if she doesn't feel the way about him that he does about her then that's it, isn't it? There's nothing to do but wait for his heart to fix itself.

_Fuck._

He wanders down corridor after corridor, unseeing and unseen. For some reason he ends up in the library. It isn't a room he frequents that often, and maybe on some subconscious level that's why his brain picked it, because nobody, not Scott, or Lydia, or anyone else is going to look for him here.

He wanders between the bookshelves, running his fingers over the cracked, faded leather spines of ancient tomes and dusty grimoirs. Out of the corner of his eye he can see Madam Pince watching him cagily. He can't blame her. In his second year, lonely and hurting and desparate to be noticed, he set off a load of dungbombs in the library. She's never forgotten or forgiven him. He wouldn't do it now, _obviously_ , but nobody seems to care what he would or wouldn't do now. They all think they know him. He's the delinquent prankster, the joker of the group, people expect that now, and sometimes it's easier to live up to people's expectations.

Hardly anybody believed it when he aced his OWLS at the end of fifth year.

He rounds a corner, trying to duck out of Madam Pince's suspicious gaze and nearly trips over a large bag that's sitting next to a desk.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, _just_ able to save himself from tumbling to the floor.

He looks up to see Derek Hale staring at him, wide eyed and nervous. There are sheets of parchment spread out on the table before him, all covered in the same neat cursive.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, “I didn't know- didn't see you. Sorry.”

Derek nods, “It's okay,” he replies, softly. “D-Don't w-worry about it.”

There's an awkward silence, and Stiles has never been able to leave a silence unfilled.

“Homework, huh?” he gestures to all the paperwork.

Derek shrugs and looks down, “Stuff for The Beacon actually."

“You write for The Beacon?” Stiles asks, momentarily distracted.

Derek glances at him awkwardly, his glasses have slipped down his nose again, “I- uh- e-edit it actually, and write for it too, but I- yeah.”

Stiles grins, “So what are you working on now? Campaigning for better food? Arguing against the amount of homework we get? Reporting on my awesome Quidditch prowess?”

The look Derek shoots him over the top of his glasses is painfully dry. “It's an article about the Sorting Hat actually.”

“The Sorting Hat? What like a history of it or something?” He leans over, trying to take a look at Derek's notes.

“Uh- no,” Derek says, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, “I'm...um... arguing that we should get rid of it.”

Stiles mouth drops a little, and then he grins, “Controversial. I like it. I never knew you were a rebel, Derek.”

Derek looks down, ears pinking, and shuffles through the pieces of parchment. There's a small smile playing on his lips. “I-It's not about rebellion or t-trying to be controversial,” he says, eventually, “I r-really believe we ought to stop using it.”

Stiles pulls up a chair and sits down, interested in spite of himself. “Why?” he asks. “What did it do? Did it fail to sort you into the house you wanted or something? Or are you prejudiced against all hats? Did you have a bad experience with a hat once, Derek? Was it _beret, beret_ awful?”

Derek's blush spreads to his cheeks as he looks over at him. “ _S-Stiles_...” he says in a warning voice, but Stiles can see he's trying not to smile and it's kind of cute. It feels like a win.

“ _Der-ek_ -” Stiles says, grinning broadly, “I can tell you like my bad hat puns, I am full to the _brim_ with hat jokes! There's no _cap_ on the number I could tell you. So don't pretend you don't like it, I know you think I'm _fedorable_.” He waggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Derek eyes widen and then his head snaps down to his parchment abruptly. Stiles can almost feel the heat of the blush on Derek's cheeks, and he feels a sudden stab of guilt, because if he's right Derek does think he's adora-- does like him--maybe.

_Possibly._

For a moment he lets himself think how he would feel if Lydia came over and chatted and joked with him, when she didn't really feel the same way. On one level it isn't the same. Derek hasn't even asked him out, but still, maybe he was kind of a dick just then. Unintentionally.

“Sorry.” Stiles scrubs his hand through his hair, “I was just messing about, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable.” He goes to stand.

“It's f-fine,” Derek says, looking up quickly, “I- you can stay if you want. I d-don't mind.”

Stiles exhales slowly and sinks back into his seat. “Okay,” he says, “so tell me about this article then.”

“You can...um... read it, if you want,” Derek says, uncertainly. “I haven't really finished it, but it's good to get a second opinion. I mean-- I mean-- if you want to-- you don't have to.”

“No, I'm interested. Hand it over.” Stiles recognizes a peace offering when he hears one and reaches out his hand. Derek picks up a piece of parchment and passes it to him, not quite meeting his eyes.

They sit there together in relative silence, the only noise is the scratch of Derek's quill as he writes furiously, and the occasional dry, dusty cough from Madam Pince.

The truth is, Stiles has never really bothered with the school newspaper. It isn't a thing he ever thought he'd be interested in, but as he sits there reading he can't help but wonder why not. Derek's writing is good. It's really good. His arguments are intelligent and witty. Stiles reads the entire article through with mounting disbelief.

The thing is, he can't quite match the timid, shy guy sitting in front of him with the passionate, articulate person who shines through here, and for a moment he's absolutely fucking floored by it.

Stiles clears his throat a little and Derek looks up. “Uh, this is good, Derek, here though you say, 'We live in an era where it is unacceptable to discriminate against someone based on their bloodline, however, by persisting to sort students into house by a 'reading' of their personalities at a young age, we create and encourage a whole new set of divisions. Recent history shows us that can have disastrous consequences.' Do you actually believe that?”

Derek peers at him over the rim of his glasses. “Of c-course,” he says. “Ask yourself, w-would the last wizarding war have been able to happen as easily if we h-hadn't created an environment in the school which supported and encouraged one h-house to be alienated from the others? If the houses had been m-mixed up in a different way, so that people with different bloodlines and qualities had been alongside each other, would things have played out in the same way? The things is, nothing's changed, even now people act as if Slytherins are inherently worse than Gryffindors, and that's awful. We arrive at H-Hogwarts at age eleven, we sit on a stool and the hat tells us where we belong. We become defined by our houses and we in turn define others by theirs and more often than not that's just shorthand for a bunch of lazy assumptions about who people are and what they're capable of.”

Stiles gazes at Derek, his mouth slack, he doesn't think he's ever heard Derek say this much before. Derek meets his eyes and then looks down at his hands, flushing furiously.

“S-sorry,” he says, “I didn't mean to- to rant at you. I-I just feel very strongly about this.”

Stiles grins, waving a hand dismissively. “It's fine, it's interesting.” And then, because he's a little shit, who can't resist, “You're too clever for Hufflepuff, are you sure you weren't meant to be in Ravenclaw?”

Derek's head snaps up, his eyes narrow, “I-I'm p-proud to be in Hufflepuff, but just because I got sorted there, it doesn't mean I can't be intelligent, or ambitious or courageous. I can be all of those things. They're not mutually exclusive qualities. The whole thing is just f-fucking ridiculous.”

Stiles holds his hand up in defeat. “Derek! Derek, I get it! I was just kidding.”

Derek glares at him a little, and then ducks his head, he picks up his quill again and starts writing aggressively.

Stiles winces. "Sorry, I didn't mean to upset you."

Derek pauses, his quill touching the parchment; he looks up and sighs. "I- I know I get a bit intense about this, but it _matters_ and besides some people aren't very nice about H-Hufflepuff, when my uncle found out where I'd been sorted-" he blanches, fiddling with the quill. "Never mind. Just, I'm sorry, I probably overreacted." Derek looks back down at his work and continues to write.

Stiles scrubs a hand through his hair, and watches Derek thoughtfully. “The hat didn't know where to put me,” he confesses eventually.

Derek's eyes flick to him in a wordless question.

Stiles shrugs, “It basically stalled, said I could be in any of the houses.”

Derek sits up straighter and leans forward a little. "So how did you get sorted into Gryffindor?" he asks curiously.

“I chose it.”

“Why?”

Stiles finds a loose thread on the cuff of his sweater and pulls at it restlessly, feeling embarrassed all of a sudden. “I was eleven fucking years old, Derek. I was in a strange country, at a new school, completely alone. I'd just sat next to Scott on a train for a few hours and decided he was going to be my best friend forever, and you know, it turns out I wasn't wrong about that. Scott had already been sorted into Gryffindor by the time I got to the Sorting Hat. I chose Gryffindor to be with Scott.”

Derek raises an eyebrow and snorts, “How loyal of you.” he says. “Are you sure _you_ shouldn't be in Hufflepuff?”

Stiles grins fondly at him and Derek shakes his head, returning his attention to his work.

 

o0o


	5. Chapter 5

“You weren't at dinner,” Kira says as Derek enters the Hufflepuff common room later that evening, “I know you're upset, I know you've got a lot of work on, but you've got to eat, Derek, and you can't avoid Stiles forever.”

Derek puts his books down on a coffee table and sinks into an overstuffed couch. “I wasn't really hungry.” He glances at her and then away, a soft, private smile spreading across his face.

She narrows her eyes and assesses him closely, “Okaaay, What happened?”

Derek gnaws at his lip. “Nothing.” He's aiming for nonchalance, and missing by about a thousand miles.

She sits down next to him, hugs her knees to her chest and fixes him with a disbelieving stare.

He grins and ducks his head, “I- I may have spoken to Stiles.”

She leans forward then, grabbing his arm in excitement, “And? Did he agree to take you on that date?”

Derek swallows, “No,” he glances across at her, ears pinking. “We didn't talk about the date. I don't think he remembers asking me out to be honest.”

Kira's eyes soften in sympathy, “Oh! Well. What _did_ you talk about then? I mean you seem happy, I take it you got more than two words out?”

Derek blushes in spite of himself. “Y-yes,” he admits with a pleased grin. “He was asking me about that article I'm writing.”

Kira tilts her head quizzically, “The Sorting Hat thing or the one calling for an end to the use of dried billywigs in Fizzing Whizzbees?”

“The Sorting Hat one, he read it through for me.”

“And?” Kira says, vibrating with excitement. “What happened then?”

Derek shrugs helplessly, “W-we just talked- it was good. He's really... I mean I probably got a little intense.”

Kira purses her lips, “Did you lecture him about the evils of the Sorting Hat, Derek?” She covers her face with her hands, “You didn't? Did you? Because I know how you get when you start on that.”

Derek winces. “I-I kinda did?” he admits, “b-but Stiles didn't seem to mind. I mean, h-he seemed interested...” He trails off uncertainly.

“Really?” Kira says, with the skepticism of one who has been subjected to _many_ Sorting Hat related rants.

“Y-Yes! Really,” Derek says, flushing further, “I-I can't believe you would... he isn't... I just...” He looks up and catches the twinkle in her eye, “Oh g-go away!” he says grumpily, “I get enough teasing from Laura, I don't need it from you too.”

She grins at him and he can't help smiling back. “I'm really pleased for you, Der,” she says. “Do you think he'll ask you out?”

Derek's stomach swoops low at the thought. He drops his eyes and stares at his hands. “I- I don't _think_ so. I mean, he didn't mention it and he didn't seem to be... but it was just nice to be noticed y'know? T-to talk to him finally.”

When he chances another glance at Kira, she's smiling at him, soft and fond. “Yeah, I know,” she says, nudging him with an elbow.

She's a good friend. The best. “W-What about you?” he asks, “Tell me your news.”

Kira shrugs, “Not much to tell, I had a letter from home. Everything's okay, my parents seem to be getting a long well at the moment. In other news, Potions is kicking my ass, so, y'know, the usual.”

“Ugh. Potions,” Derek moans, “I still haven't done that essay on Golpalotts Third Law.”  
  
“Me either.” Kira says, wincing. 

“We could work on it now, together, if you want."

She sighs but starts to get up. “N.E.W.T.s are horrible,” she grumbles, “why am I doing them again?”

“I don't know, something about working with endangered dragons in Norway?” Derek says.

“Not dragons, Derek,” she says reproachfully, “There are several different endangered species of magical creature indigenous to Scandinavia. Look at the Storsjöodjuret, or the Jörmungandr, which has a terrible reputation, but is actually...”

“Completely harmless?” Derek finishes for her dryly. She isn't the only one who's been subjected to impassioned rants over the years. Kira's fervor for endangered magical creatures is a force to be reckoned with.

She narrows her eyes at him playfully. “Ha ha! Fine. I'll get my potions notes. But just so you know,” she calls over her shoulder as she strides away, “if you want to get that job at the Prophet one day, you're going to have to start getting your facts right!”

He can still hear her muttering imprecations about 'dragons' as she stomps up the stairs to her dorm, and he grins.

 

o0o

 

Stiles feels far more relaxed by the time he reaches the Gryffindor common room that evening. He had a surprising amount of fun hanging out with Derek in the library, and he's almost forgotten the reason he ended up there in the first place. So it takes him by surprise when Scott accosts him as soon as he enters the room.

“Stiles!” Scott says, eyes wide with concern. “What happened? Where'd you go earlier?” At his words, it all comes rushing back: Lydia is back with Jackson, _again._

Stiles grimaces and scrubs a hand through his hair, “Uh- sorry, man. I wasn't really in the mood for dinner.”

Scott raises an eyebrow. “You? Not in the mood for dinner?” he echoes.

“I just saw Lydia and Jackson sitting together okay?” he admits. “I couldn't stomach watching them being all-” He waves a hand in the air dismissively, trailing off.

Scott looks chagrined. “Aw, man! I should have known that's what it was. I'd have come with you if you said something.”

“I know you would,” Stiles claps Scott on the back, “but it's okay. I needed some time to myself.”

They trail into the common room together and take a seat by the window, out of the way. “Where did you end up?” Scott asks.

“Nowhere in particular,” Stiles says after a second. He stares out of the window, unwilling to meet Scott's gaze. “I just wandered around for a bit.”

Scott shrugs, “Fair enough. Hey, did you want something to eat? I've got a pumpkin pasty upstairs. It's only a _little_ bit squashed.”

Stiles feels his stomach growl hungrily at the thought of it. “Yeah, actually, that might be good.”

Scott jumps up and disappears up to their dormitory for a minute to retrieve it and Stiles feels a little guilty. It isn't like he and Scott have to tell each other _everything_  is it?  Sure, he started the evening moping about Lydia, but he doesn't feel _quite_ as cut up about it now.

For a moment he considers telling Scott who he actually spent the last hour with.

After all, Scott wouldn't have made anything out of him spending time with Derek.

Probably.

The thing about Scott though, is he can be extraordinarily perceptive when it's least expected.

Not that there is anything to _perceive_ about Stiles and Derek hanging out in the library for an hour or so.

There definitely, _definitely_ isn't.

It's just... Scott might think there is and it doesn't mean anything. So-

Stiles looks up to see Scott bounding back down the stairs, pumpkin pasty in hand.

“Here you go.” He passes it over to Stiles and flops down next to him.

Stiles tears open the wrapper and eyes it warily, “Did you- Scott, did you sit on this?”

“What? No! At least- probably not.”

Stiles pokes it with a finger and then sniffs it suspiciously.

Scott raises an eyebrow, “If you don't want it just say, because I will totally eat that, dude.”

Stiles takes a bite quickly, Scott's appetite is legendary. “S'fine,” he says through a mouthful of food. “Fanks,” he adds as crumbs spray everywhere. Stiles swallows. He feels better for eating, but his mind is still buzzing from talking to Derek earlier. “Hey Scotty, did you ever wonder what it would have been like if we weren't in Gryffindor?”

Scott looks at him askance, “No. Why? Do you?”

Stiles shrugs, “Maybe. I mean, if there wasn't a Gryffindor, what house would you be in then?”

Scotts nose wrinkles in confusion, “I don't know. I've never really thought about it. Why?”

“No reas'n” Stiles mumbles through a mouthful of pasty. “Jus' wondering.”

“Why?” Scott asks curiously, “You don't regret being in Gryffindor, do you?”

“No! No. I was just thinking about it y'know, like who decided to go for courage, loyalty, intelligence and ambition as the defining qualities to divide us all up?” 

“Uh- the founders I think,” says Scott, shooting Stiles an odd look.

“Well yeah, of course, _obviously,_ okay, but do you ever think it might be better if it wasn't like that?”

“Well, how would it be then?” Scott asks, “I mean how would it work?” He looks concerned.

“I dunno,” Stiles sighs, “like, something different." Perhaps Scott isn't the right person to have this conversation with. "Maybe everyone who can burp the alphabet can be in the same house, or everyone who can fart on command or something."

Scott snorts with laughter and relaxes back into the chair, “I'd like to see the Sorting Hat make a song about that.”

Stiles snickers, and intones sonorously, “You might belong in Gryffindor where dwell the brave of fart.” It's a fair impression of the Sorting Hat, even if he says so himself.

Scott grins, “In which case we'd _both_ still be in Gryffindor, man! See! It was always meant to be!”

“Ah,” Stiles says, “but the real question is, would McGonagall still be our head of house?”

Scott looks vaguely ill. “You had to go _there_ didn't you.”

 

o0o

 

The following evening, Stiles enters the Great Hall for dinner and takes a seat next to Scott as usual. He carefully doesn't look in the direction of Lydia or Jackson. He isn't going to do that to himself and besides, the tables are piled high with food, he's had Quidditch practice and he's _ravenous_. It doesn't help that he missed a proper meal last night. Although he wasn't the only one who did that, he reflects, Derek is probably starving too by now.

He glances across at the Hufflepuff table absently, and then looks again, a little more intently, because Derek isn't there. He isn't there _again._

Which...

It's distracting okay?

He's distracted by it.

Does Derek _never_ come to dinner?

Is this a regular thing?

Does he not eat but at _all_?

“What's up dude?” Scott asks, cutting in on his thoughts.

Stiles shakes his head to clear it and forces a grin. “Um- nothing. I guess.”

He spends the meal discussing Quidditch tactics with Scott.

He doesn't look over to gaze longingly at Lydia.

He doesn't find his eyes drifting to the Hufflepuff table either, scanning it to see if Derek has finally made an appearance.

He doesn't do either of those things.

Much.

Later, as he wanders back to the Gryffindor tower he finds Derek's absence playing on his mind.

Scott slumps in a comfy chair by the fireplace, and closes his eyes in contentment, but Stiles stands uncertainly, unable to settle.

Scott cracks an eye open to look at him, “Are you sure you're all right, dude? You're being weird.”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair nervously, he _is_ being weird. What the _fuck_ is wrong with him? “I- uh. I just remembered I need to do-erm – need to do something. In the um- library.”

Scott opens both eyes and raises an eyebrow, “ _You're_ going to the library? _Now?_ ”

Stiles crosses his arms. “I have homework,” he says, “I need to get a book out.”

“ _You_ need to get a _book_ out?” Scott repeats, and both his eyebrows disappear into his hairline. “To do _homework_?”

“Yes!” Stiles says, with a tinge of annoyance, “For fucks sake what are you? A fucking echo?”

Scott raises his hands in surrender. “Sorry, man, it's just-” he takes in Stiles' expression and whatever he was going to say dies in his throat. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No! No. It's fine. I just- um- I'll meet you back here soon.”

Stiles grabs his battered messenger bag and flees before Scott can ask any more questions.

He sprints through the corridor and skids into the library, shoes squeaking loudly on the flagstones. It's late and virtually empty, but Madam Pince is still sitting at her desk. She scowls at Stiles as he enters.

Stiles smirks and waves jauntily at her, before slipping away between the bookshelves in search of his quarry.

He almost fist pumps the air when he finds what he's looking for.

Derek.

He's there again. Stiles can see him, his dark head bent over his parchment, glasses sliding down his nose. His eyebrows scrunched together in concentration.

Stiles feels strangely elated by his own success. Ha! He was right. Dorky Derek is in the library _again._

How often does he miss dinner because he's busy working anyway?

Who _does_ that?

Stiles clears his throat and takes a step forward.

Derek doesn't look up, he's utterly engaged in whatever it is he's writing.

“Ahem.” Stiles says again pointedly. Louder this time.

Still nothing.

“AHEM!” he says again, louder still.

“Yes.” Derek says in clipped tones, still not looking up, “What do you need?”

_Unbelievable._

Who gets _that_ involved in their damn homework. The guy needs to loosen up a bit.

“Hey, nerd. In the library again?” There's an edge of irritation to his voice. He doesn't mean it to be there, but he's frustrated.

He just wants Derek to _look_ at him.

Derek's head snaps up and he meets Stiles' eyes in shock. “Wha- what are _you_ doing here?” And he really does have ridiculous bunny teeth. They're worrying his bottom lip right now, as he stares up at Stiles through those thick-rimmed glasses.

His eyes are green.

Stiles has never really noticed that before, but... huh.

“I uh- I have work to do obviously.” Stiles says, heat creeping into his cheeks a little. He feels flustered all of a sudden. “Why? What are _you_ doing here?”

“Working,” Derek says, gesturing to the open books and reams of parchment. “Laura has an idea for a series that I want to sketch out, plus there was the finishing touches to that Sorting Hat article. Besides I have an Arithmancy essay to finish as well.”

Stiles pulls up a chair next to him and sinks into it happily, “Hmm, sounds like a lot of work.”

Derek nods his agreement, and his glasses slip down his nose a little. “Um- so, w-what are you working on?”

Stiles looks momentarily confused but then remembers: he just told Derek he was here to do homework. Huh. “Oh! I have a thing for... uh... Defence Against the Dark Arts, so, do you mind if I sit here?”

Derek shrugs, his ears pink a little bit. “No. I don't- that's fine.”

Stiles grins at him. “Cool.” He gets out his books.

Okay so the essay isn't actually due in for another three weeks, but nobody has to know that right?

 

-

 

They sit there in companionable silence, nothing except the scratch of their quills against the parchment and the rustle of pages being turned.

Madam Pince wanders passed more than once, staring at them with narrowed eyes and sniffing pointedly.

“She really doesn't like you, does she?” Derek mumbles, looking up as she wanders by for the third time in fifteen minutes.

“Well. We have a history together,” Stiles says.

“Yeah, dungbombs, I remember,” Derek says with an air of faint disapproval.

“That's right,” Stiles smirks, winking at him.

Derek blushes and turns back to his books.

 

-

 

It's nearly an hour later when Derek finally puts his quill down and looks up from his parchment. “I should p-probably get going," he says, voice tinged with reluctance.

Stiles looks up from his own essay. “Oh. Okay. I'm probably gonna finish up now too so.” He looks down again. He's written half of a Defense Against the Dark Arts essay and he _almost_ feels bad stopping, he was in the zone, man. If Scott ever finds out he's going to have a heart attack.

Next to him, Derek is packing up all his pieces of parchment and starting to tidy his books into his bag.

“So, do you often miss dinner to do school work?” Stiles asks.

Derek blushes. “S-Sometimes,” he admits, “especially when a new issue of The Beacon is due out.”

“Not very smart, for a genius like you,” Stiles observes.

Derek ducks his head. “Y-You sound like Kira,” he admits, “and I'm not a _genius._ ” He fastens his bag and stands.

Stiles rushes to stand too, struck by a moment of inspiration, “Hey, come with me a moment, I wanna show you something.”

Derek glances at him uncertainly, color rising in his cheeks, “I- uh.”

“Come on _G_ _enius_ , it won't take long and you won't regret it,” Stiles says, jamming stuff haphazardly into his own worn bag and closing it.

Derek nods mutely and follows Stiles out of the library.

 

-

 

“It's um- nothing we're going to get into trouble about is it?” Derek asks as Stiles leads him swiftly through endless corridors.

“Nah. It's fine,” Stiles says glancing at Derek fondly.

“It feels a lot like we're going to the Hufflepuff Common room.” Derek says a moment later.

Stiles grins, “Nope.”

“You say that,” Derek huffs as they round a corner, “but this is...”

“Stop!” Stiles grabs Derek's arm.

Derek stops immediately, and looks down at where Stiles hand his touching him, his ears burning. Stiles lets go guiltily.

“We're here,” Stiles announces.

Derek looks round in confusion. “Where? It's a corridor,” he says flatly.

Stiles grins, “Yes, but look.” He gestures at the painting hanging on the wall in front of him.

“Okay,” Derek concedes, “It's a corridor with a picture of a bowl of fruit hanging on the wall.”

“But not just _any_ bowl of fruit Derek! Look.”

He reaches out and touches the pear, tickling it gently. It wriggles and giggles and then transforms into a doorknob.

He hears Derek's sharp inhale next to him.

“Stiles,” he breathes, “Wha-?”  
  
Stiles reaches out and grasps the doorknob then pushes the door open.

“I told you, you need to eat, Genius.”

Derek glances at him nervously, but follows him through the door into the Hogwarts kitchens.

"I don't know Stiles..." he begins nervously, "I don't think-"

"Exactly!" Stiles says quickly, "Don't think. It's fine. You need to stop worrying about it."

-

Twenty minutes later they leave the kitchens, with pockets full of snacks, waving good-bye to all the House Elves as they go.

Derek looks around guiltily as the door shuts behind them, the doorknob melting seamlessly back into the painting. "I- Are we supposed to," he begins, "I-It feels like we shouldn't..."

"Just... stop worrying about it Derek. You missed a meal. They  _wanted_ to feed you."

Derek blushes and looks away. "It just f-feels like we did something... _illicit_ ," he confesses. "I d-don't normally..."

Stiles watches him fondly as he shuffles awkwardly from foot to foot.

"Oh for fucks sake, you're a prefect, you're the editor of the school newspaper, you're an excellent student and more to the point  _they gave you the food._ It isn't like you stole it _._ "

Derek tilts his chin defensively and meets Stiles eyes, "Then why is the door hidden? Doesn't that suggest that we shouldn't..."

Stiles snorts derisively, "You wanna give the food back?" he says, raising his finger as if to reach out and tickle the pear again. "'Cos I'm pretty sure that'll hurt their feelings."

Derek sighs heavily. "Fine."

Stiles grins in triumph, "Come on, I'll walk you back to your dormitory. If any teachers see us carrying all this food you can blame it on me." 

Derek's head whips round and he fixes Stiles with a betrayed stare, "I  _knew_ we shouldn't have-"

Stiles snorts with laughter. "Gotcha!" he says, and Derek sags, eyes narrowing.

"You're not funny you know!" he mutters as Stiles leads the way down to the Hufflepuff basement.

" _Au contraire, mi amigo,_ I am _fucking_ hilarious."

 

 

o0o

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

Meeting in the library to work kinda becomes their thing.

Stiles isn't sure how it happens, but he finds his feet taking him there more often than not.

When he has a free period, or time in the evening after dinner, he makes his excuses and disappears over there.

Scott seems utterly bemused by his new found devotion to studying.

Every time Stiles announces that he's going to the library Scott's brow crumples in confusion, and he says, “Really?” in a voice that squeaks with disbelief.

Stiles gets that, he does. He's always done fairly well at school academically but he's never put in any visible effort before, so it must seem strange. He's half dreading Scott asking him to justify why he's suddenly obsessed with going there, when the truth is, he hardly knows himself. He can't explain it, except that it feels good, it feels right to be sitting there with Derek, at 'their' regular table.

Everything about it becomes comforting. The library is steeped in the musty smell of old books and fresh parchment. The only noise the scrape of their quills against the paper and the gentle huff of Derek's breath as he agonizes over an arithmancy problem or proof reads the latest article for The Beacon. During the day, pale wintry sunshine streams through the windows, bleaching everything it touches. In the evening sessions, the warm glow of the lamps flicker over them, the bookshelves casting long eerie shadows round them, but the darkness can't break into their little oasis.

Their table becomes a little bubble, a safe place. Quiet and peaceful. Space for Stiles to just be, without the expectation of him being funny or stupid or anything really. He isn't Stiles the troublemaker, or Stiles who pined hopelessly over Lydia for years. He just is, and it's a relief. Sometimes they talk, talk about their favorite books, Quidditch, homework- whatever comes up. Sometimes they don't, sometimes they just sit, working silently next to each other.

Derek doesn't seem to have any expectation of him. He doesn't even look surprised any more when Stiles shows up, just greets him softly, a small, private smile playing on his lips; then ducks his head, turning back to his work, hair rumpled from where he runs his hands through it in abstracted thought. Tonight he has a smudge of ink on his cheek.

Stiles glances over at him and his heart speeds up in his chest.

 

 

o0o

 

 

“So, Yule Ball?” Kira says when Derek gets back from the library that evening. She's bouncing up and down on a squashy mustard-colored armchair in her enthusiasm. “Are you going to ask Stiles to go with you?”

Derek sits down heavily and blanches, ducking his head. “Uh- I- um. N-No. I don't think-” he begins, pushing his glasses further up his nose. “It's not- he doesn't like m-me -”

Kira cocks her head. “Really?” she asks. “He spends hours in the library with you. Hours. I mean, I'm no expert on this stuff, but that's got to mean something, right?”

Derek sighs, “He doesn't like me, like _that._ I'm a s-study buddy or something... not someone he'd go on a date with.” He fiddles with the cuff of his robe.

Kira wrinkles her nose skeptically, “Well, if you're sure.”

“Pretty sure,” Derek mumbles. His shoulders sag and he slumps forlornly back in his chair, 

The thing is Stiles is absolutely capable of making it clear if he's attracted to someone. He seems to have no problem making a move on someone or getting a partner. Derek knows he hooked up with Caitlin a little while back, the whole school does. Plus, well, there was that one night when he was working late in the library, heard a noise and went to investigate, only to find Stiles and Danny with their hands down the front of each others... well.

He blushes now, just thinking about it.

He hadn't stayed to watch or alerted them to his presence.

He isn't a _voyeur_.

Instead he'd rushed back to his table, hurriedly shoved everything back into his bag, raced back to his bedroom and thrown himself on his bed in a state of aroused misery. It should be great news! Stiles likes guys! Unfortunately, he still didn't know Derek existed, so instead it was a new kind of torture.

Anyway, the point is, if Stiles thought _that_ way about him, he would have said something. He _would have._

Next to him, Kira shifts in her seat restlessly, she's working herself up to say something, that much is obvious.

“Laura says she could set you up with someone, if you want,” she rushes out, a nervous grin on her face. “It might be worth taking her up on that.”

Derek glares across at her sharply, “Have you b-been talking about my- my- my romantic attachments- with Laura?”

The nervous expression dissolves as Kira bites at her lip and closes her eyes.

“What?” he bites out.

“Romantic attachments?” she gurgles, laughter bubbling out of her. “Are you secretly a ninety year old woman?”

Derek crosses his arms sulkily and blushes as Kira giggles uncontrollably next to him. “Oh, Der. I love you so much!” she says eventually, wrapping an arm round his shoulder. “Always be you. Never try to be anyone else.”

Derek pulls away testily, “I don't know, if I'm someone else does that mean you and Laura stop laughing at me?”

“I'm sorry,” she says, once she's gained control of herself. “I- I haven't told Laura anything about Stiles if that's what you mean. I wouldn't, you know that, and there's no pressure from me for you to date anyone. You know that _too_. I just- I worry about you.”

Derek harrumphs, but his shoulders relax a little despite himself.

Kira puts a hand on his knee. “Are you really sure Stiles isn't interested?”

Derek shrugs helplessly, “Pretty sure.”

“Why don't you ask him?” she suggests. “At least then you'll definitely know where you stand.”

Derek feels bile rise in his throat at the thought of it, he breathes in through is nose and exhales through gritted teeth.

“I don't-.” He sighs, “I d-don't want to ruin it. I l-like what we have.” Fuck. His cheeks pink with mortification, the words just don't what to come out all of a sudden. He takes a deep breath. Clears his throat, wills himself to calm and articulate things properly, “W-what if I say something and he doesn't f-feel the s-same... at l-least now I have th-this.”

Kira looks at him seriously and gives his knee a sympathetic squeeze, “I'd say that was fine, if I thought that you were going to keep being his friend and be happy by yourself, or even move onto someone else, y'know, romantically, but we both know that's not how you work, Der. You'll 'be his friend' and pine horribly while he dates other people. He won't want to hurt you, he won't mean to, but he will and that's not good. It isn't fair on either of you.”

Derek looks down at his hands, ears burning. “I-I-I-It m-m-might n-n-not b-b-b-b-be l-like that,” he forces the words out. “Y-y-y-y-you, I-I-I-” his mouth works soundlessly for a moment, all the words stuck in his craw. He swallows, clears his throat and tries again, “I-I-I-I-I-I”.

The words won't come out, tears of shame and frustration sting his eyes, his stutter that he's worked so hard to overcome is always more pronounced when he feels pressured. It's always been so much _fucking_ easier to write stuff down. His cheeks burn crimson with the humiliation of it.

He wants to respond to Kira, wants to say that he know she cares, but that he's capable of looking out for himself. That if he gets hurt it's on him, not Stiles, he's a big boy, he can handle it. He can't get the words out though.

“Hey,” Kira says, eyes widening as she takes his hand and holds it firmly. “It's okay. Take a breath. Don't get stressed. I didn't mean to upset you okay? I just, don't want to see you get hurt is all. You get that right?”

Derek swallows all the words he can't say down, and nods his head jerkily. He feels so angry and embarrassed. “I-I-It's n-n-n-not y-y-y-y-you,” he manages, “I-I-I-It's....” He points a finger at his mouth and then looks away in frustration. He isn't angry at Kira, he really isn't. He's angry at himself, that after all these years, after all this progress, after all the techniques and therapies and spells that have been tried, he can still be reduced to this.

Kira gets that though. He can see it in the way she's looking at him now, it's sympathetic, but not pitying. He's always loved that about her.

She exhales. “Want to play wizard chess for a bit?” she offers.

Derek considers it for a second then nods.

Actually wizard chess sounds pretty good right now.

 

o0o

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

Stiles has been successfully avoiding Lydia for nearly two weeks, so perhaps he shouldn't be surprised when she ambushes him after Herbology late Thursday afternoon. Her copper hair is tied back in a ponytail, her mouth set in a thin line. “Can we talk?” she asks with grim determination.

Her voice is firm but the expression in her eyes gives her away, vulnerable and anxious.

Stiles shrugs, but hangs back against the outer wall of the greenhouse as their classmates rush out round them like the tide.

“Sure,” he says, leaning up against the door frame and jamming his hands in his pockets.

She gazes at him expectantly, like he's supposed to be the one doing the talking.

He looks away, waiting her out.

Lydia crosses her arms. “You're avoiding me.”

He shrugs again, sullen. “No.”

Lydia's eyes narrow. “Don't lie, Stiles. It's been two weeks and you won't even look at me any more. We don't talk, unless we're in a group.” She swallows. “I didn't mean to hurt you. I honestly didn't know-” her voice cracks.

Stiles can't look at her. Instead he watches his breath as it condenses in the freezing air forming little clouds that dissipate quickly. His fingers feel numb in his pockets, his face feels like a slab of raw meat.

Lydia stands next to him, shivering in the cold.

“How could you not _know_?” he says, his voice flat and distant to his own ears. “I told you. I told you how I felt all the time.”

Lydia wraps her arms round herself tighter. Whether it's from cold or to defend herself against the accusation, Stiles can't tell. “You say lots of stuff, Stiles. You flirt with plenty of people. How was I supposed to know that I was different to Danny or Heather or Caitlin or anyone else?” Stiles' shoulders slump and she swallows nervously, “Look, I care about you as a friend...”

Just like that something snaps in his chest, because that's it, isn't it? Friendship. That's all there is, which would be fine, except suddenly it doesn't feel like a very even friendship. How can it be, when one person can be completely in love with someone who doesn't even realize it? If they were really friends, wouldn't she have understood him better? Wouldn't she have realized that he was serious?

He feels angry, hurt, undone. He won't let her see it though. He won't let her have that too. He unfolds languidly, standing a little taller and raises a mocking eyebrow, his smile wide and dangerous. “It's fine, Lyds,” he says. “Why would you take me seriously? Why would anyone? I'm not _that_ guy right? I'm an asshole but not quite the right _kind_ of asshole for you. I mean not everyone can be Jackson Whittemore.” He wields the name like a weapon.

Lydia's face drains of color, her eyes narrow, and Stiles feels something rise sharp and triumphant within him. He takes a step toward her.

“Should I have pined away in a corner for you? Would that have helped? Should I have bought expensive gifts and written poems about your eyes? Should I have refused to date anyone because I liked you? Ignored everyone, even though you were with someone else? Would all of that have made it easier for you to be sure? I wouldn't have thought you needed that to know though, after all, we're such good _friends.”_ He spits out the last word and she looks shattered, it should be a victory, but instead he just feels hollow.

Lydia stumbles back from him, her voice brittle, “You want to be taken seriously? Start acting like things matter. Start acting like everything's not just a big _joke._ Start by growing the _fuck_ up!” She spins on her heel to leave, but Stiles catches her arm to stop her. He can't help himself.

“I'm in love with you!” he says words tumbling out desperately. “I've been in love with you, from the moment I saw you on the Hogwarts Express on our first day. You had your hair tied back in braids and you were talking to Allison and then you saw that the strap on Scott's bag was fraying and you repaired it with a spell, and I was so in awe of you. So _fucking_ in awe of you. I knew then. I knew right then how I felt. How I would always feel about you. Please, Lyds. I love you. I'm sorry, and I love you.”

She exhales, and the angers seems to drain out of her. She pulls away gently, her face stricken, eyes filling with tears. “That's not love, Stiles,” she says. “You don't just get to decide something like that then and stick with it. That's something else, obsession maybe, not love.”

They stare at each other for a moment, at an impasse, both raw and defenseless.

“So you love Jackson then?” he hates the way his voice sounds, needy and defeated.

Lydia sighs, shrugs helplessly. “I don't know,” she admits. “I only know that I love myself and I owe it to myself to be with the person who makes me happy if I can. Even if it's difficult sometimes. Even if he isn't who _you_ or anyone else thinks I should be with.”

Her words hang between them. Stiles closes his eyes, rubs the heels of his hands into them to try and stop the tears from falling.

“I am sorry though, Stiles,” she says. “I'm sorry that we weren't better friends, that we weren't the friends I thought we were. If we had been I might have realized how you felt. I might not have- I _would_ have behaved differently.”

She wouldn't have flirted back. She wouldn't have played the game if she knew his feelings were on the line.

There's the crunch of gravel as she turns and walks away.

He can't watch her go.

 

 

o0o

 

 

He feels strange, listless for the rest of the day. He'd thought he'd been healing, not getting over her but coping better. It was a scab though and now it's been knocked away the wound is raw and bleeding again. If anything it's worse than it was before.

He skips his last class that day and disappears off round the lake, skimming stones across the inky water, watching as they sink below the surface. If he still had that bottle of firewhiskey he'd be drunk by now.

He wants to scream in frustration, vacillating wildly between anger and despair. He isn't sure who he's angry at any more though, himself for being so stupid, or her for not seeing him, for not understanding him at all, when he had been so sure she did, that she _would_.

He finds a tree and sinks into the crook of a rumpled root, looking out to the lake and cries. Cries in a way he hasn't allowed himself to since his mom died when he was eleven. Cries until his throat aches and his tears are all used up.

Eventually, when there aren't any more tears, he sits and watches as the sun dips lower and lower on the horizon. It's dark when he makes his way back up to the castle. He feels drained of emotion. All that's left is a restive energy that buzzes underneath his skin, until he feels like he might burst with it.

He skips dinner. He isn't hungry, not even close. He feels restless and caged in the confines of the castle, when all he really wants to do is break free, run, scream or destroy something. If it wasn't dark he'd go out and fly around, practice Quidditch for a bit; that's always been the one thing that's calmed him since he first came to Hogwarts. The one place he feels completely free. It's too late now, though.

He needs to get rid of it, this itch, this thrum of tension that won't let him be. He needs release. It's purely by chance that he sees Danny coming down the corridor toward him as he's heading back vaguely in the direction of the Gryffindor common room.

He catches the appreciative gaze Danny throws his way as they pass, and thinks to himself, 'why not?' Someone else's hand on his dick isn't going to make him feel any worse after all, is it? He looks back, raises an eyebrow and nods at Danny.

Danny smirks and follows him. They don't speak much. Never do. This isn't about talking, he thinks, as he leads Danny into a deserted third floor bathroom, this is about scratching a goddamn itch. Danny pushes him up against the sinks and grins.

He was wrong about Lydia, but this will get rid of the emptiness, the loneliness, he thinks as he fumbles with the Danny's belt. This will make him feel better. This will fill that angry, gaping empty void, that feels like it's about to swallow his soul.

As it turns out, he's wrong about that too.

 

 -

 

He doesn't go to the library that night.

He's filled with self-loathing and regret.

For some reason it feels like seeing Derek's face would make that worse. There's an innocence to Derek, he's trusting and sweet.

Somehow the thought of seeing Derek right now makes Stiles feel... guilty.

It's ridiculous, they're not dating, Stiles doesn't even _think_ of him like that.

It's laughable.

Ludicrous.

Stiles makes his way to the Gryffindor common room, straightens as he approaches the portrait of the Fat Lady and plasters on a smile.

He winks at her and she blushes, giggling like a schoolgirl.

He's fine. Everything's fine.

He's going to be _fine_.

 

 

o0o

 

 

Stiles doesn't show at the library that night, for the first time in nearly two weeks. He wasn't at dinner either.

Not that it matters.

It doesn't matter.

 _Stiles never said he would be here tonight_ , Derek thinks as he sits staring listlessly at the parchment in front of him. _He doesn't owe you anything._

He stays half an hour longer than he normally would do. Right up until the library closes. His parchment is still blank when he leaves.

 

 -

 

Laura insists on sitting on the Hufflepuff table at breakfast the next morning. She settles down between Derek and Kira without asking, a broad grin on her face.

“Der!” she says, bright and business-like. “Have you made a decision about the Seventh Year interviews yet?”

“Please, come and sit with us, Laura,” Derek mutters snidely.

Laura glances over to Kira. “Why has he got a wand up his butt this morning?” 

Kira shrugs. “Woke up like that,” she says, taking a sip of orange juice.

Derek inhales sharply. “I d-do not have a w-wand up my _b-butt_ _!_ ” he sputters.

Laura looks back to him, and chews thoughtfully on a rasher of bacon. She swallows. “Maybe that's the _problem_ ," she says waggling her eyebrows.

Derek blinks at her incredulously, “I-I- You- this is c-completely inappropriate. I'm eating _b_ _-br_ _eakfast!_ ” he whispers furiously. “And anyway, I am _f-fine!_ ”

“Of _course_ you are Derek, but are you _sure_ I can't interest you in some _sausage?_ ” She winks and gestures to a plate piled high with crisp bacon and thick, juicy sausages.

Derek folds his arms, “G-Go back to Ravenclaw. I'm abandoning the interview idea, and disowning y-you. It's over. There's nothing between us any more.”

“Aw, bro! Don't say that. Okay, I'll stop with the bad penis metaphors, I'm sorry okay. Sorry!” She puts her hands up in defeat.

Derek's eyes narrow. “F-Fine,” he concedes. “ As long as we're clear. Anyway, moving on, I wrote a list out of potential interviewees a couple of days ago for the feature you suggested. If we get Boyd to take photographs, Erica, Isaac, you and I will split the interviews between us. We'll put a couple in each issue, that should work. We'll have an editorial meeting tonight and discuss who will interview who.”

“Excellent!” Laura says, clapping him on the back. She sneaks a hand out and snatches more bacon, eyes fluttering shut as she takes a bite. "Oh my god, so good," she murmurs.

Kira giggles. "You want us to leave you alone with the bacon?" she asks.

"Ha!" Laura says with a grin, "It's okay, I'll take it back to the Ravenclaw table, before that vein in Derek's forehead bursts. See you later, Kira, love you, bro!" She pushes back her chair and stands, ruffling Derek's hair as she passes behind him on her way back to her own table.

Derek watches her go. “S-sometimes I can't b-believe we share _any_ genetic material at all, let alone a uterus for nine months!” he mutters.

Kira rolls her eyes. “You're both as bad as each other.”

Derek snorts derisively, but his gaze is already drifting over to the Gryffindor table, without thinking he seeks out Stiles, watches him talking animatedly to Scott. His heart clenches painfully in his chest.

Kira leans over and whispers, “I know there's only one _wand_ you're interested in, Der.” Derek looks at her sharply and she grins, “I-”

“If you are about to make a reference to _sausages,_ I swear to Merlin-” he begins hotly.

Kira huffs back a laugh, “No, I'm not, I promise! I'm just saying _ask_ him. Take the risk. Put yourself out there.”

Derek swallows, “I-I- we d-discussed this. H-he's n-not, h-he d-doesn't...”

“He's looking at you now!” Kira whispers, excitedly.

Derek glances across, he can't help himself even though he knows Kira's probably just messing with him. His breath catches in his throat.

Stiles _is_ looking at him. Staring at him with a curious intensity, like Derek's a puzzle to be solved. Derek's heart picks up in his chest.

“Wave at him! Smile!” Kira commands in his ear.

Derek lifts a hand tentatively. He tries to smile, but his mouth is like a rusty hinge. He must look deranged.

“Oh my God, what are you doing? Smile naturally. I know you can smile naturally!” Kira hisses.

“You're not helping,” Derek mutters through clenched teeth and a rictus grin.

Stiles shakes himself suddenly like he's coming to, raises an eyebrow at Derek and gives him a confused half smile, then turns back to Scott.

Derek sags back against his chair. That was a _disaster._

Kira shakes her head, “What was that? Hopeless!” she mutters, taking a sip of orange juice, “I'm not even sure what that was. I've never seen anything..."

Derek thud his head onto the table. “I am never going to get _any_ sausage!” he mumbles morosely.

Kira inhales her orange juice and dissolves into fits of helpless giggles.

 

 

o0o

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

It's been a week and Stiles hasn't come by the library. Derek doesn't want to believe that his rictus grin and awkward wave could have put Stiles off, but maybe it did.

Stiles is cool, he's popular, he doesn't need or want to voluntarily spend time with a stuttering, bookish nerd like Derek.

At least that's what Derek's telling himself by the end of the week.

By the end of the week the memories of his time with Stiles have started to take on a vague, dreamlike quality.

He could _almost_ convince himself it never happened.

It did though, otherwise Derek wouldn't know that close up Stiles smells of soap and mint toothpaste. He wouldn't know that Stiles' supple hands and strong forearms are constantly scuffed and scraped from long hours at Quidditch practice. That his hands never stop moving, they're always expressive, that his lithe fingers accentuate his speech with graceless elegance. If it had never happened he wouldn't know that Stiles' eyes glow like burnished gold as the lights flicker during long evenings spent in the library, and that in quiet unguarded moments, when it's just them, he can smile soft and fond. Private. Like it's just meant for Derek.

Fuck.

It's not like Derek ever expected Stiles to _want_ him, to like him back like _that._

Friendship might have been nice though.

He would have been happy with friendship. He could have made his peace with that. For one moment he had hoped that things might be moving in that direction.

Apparently not.

He can't help looking at Stiles, he's been doing it for so long now that it's habit. It's habit to sneak glances at him across the Great Hall, to let his gaze rest on him for a second too long during Transfiguration, to seek him out and sneak a glace beneath his lashes if they pass each other in the corridor. For a little while there Stiles had been looking back.

He isn't any more.

Before, when Stiles didn't look at him it was because he had not noticed him. Now it's like he's choosing not to. Before if Stiles' eyes rested on him, they looked through him, like Derek was invisible. Now they skirt around him like they physically can't look at him. It's magnetic repulsion in action, and Derek has no idea what he's done to deserve it.

It's worse, he decides, to know what it was like to have Stiles attention, however fleetingly. Worse, to have had his suspicions confirmed, to know that Stiles is so much more than just some cliché bad boy or practical joker. Worse to know that he is, in fact, fiercely intelligent, savagely kind and wickedly funny; it's worse still to discover that all of those qualities are undercut with a vulnerability that Derek never guessed existed. It's worse to have experienced something that felt real and intimate, to have his hopes raised only to have them dashed for no apparent reason.

He wishes Stiles had never stumbled upon him in the library that day. He wishes Stiles had never noticed him in the first place.

 

-

 

It's two weeks since Derek last saw Stiles at the library, he isn't moping. He is _not._ _  
_

Kira and Laura both disagree with that, although they're handling it in different ways.

At the root of that difference is the fact that Kira knows he's pining for Stiles, whereas Laura is vaguely aware that he likes a _guy._ She has no idea who that guy is, or why Derek's been so maudlin in the last couple of weeks.

No. Not maudlin, not morose, miserable, moribund or mawkish, or any of the other M words that Laura's coming out with as she stands over him in the library and eyes him shrewdly. 

_“Shut up, Laura.”_

Laura puts her hands in the air, a gesture of surrender.

Kira glances at her, “Have you been reading through M in the dictionary or something?”

“Maybe,” Laura says shiftily, “or maybe I'm just a super intelligent Ravenclaw genius.”

Derek snorts derisively, and Laura frowns. She has that glint her eye. The one that says she's going to try and start fixing things. She always wants to fix everything. _Ugh._

“Seriously, Der,” Laura says, sitting down across from him at the table. “I know a guy, he likes you. He's _asked_ about you. Consider going to the Yule Ball with _him._ ”

Derek shrugs, “I-I don't, I can't, I just...” He clears his throat and takes a deep breath, “It doesn't seem right.”

Laura's shoulders sag, “Come ooonnn. It isn't like he wants to put a ring on it. He's just looking to have a little fun.” She glances at Kira, who wrinkles her nose. Laura sighs noisily, and slumps back in her chair in defeat, “You two are both hopeless. Just, think about it okay? Promise me you'll think about it, and let me know.”

She drops the subject for the rest of the evening, and Derek sits in relative silence while she and Kira carry the bulk of the conversation.

He doesn't miss the way Laura keeps glancing at him when she thinks he's not looking though, or the way her forehead creases with worry when she does.

“She means well,” Kira says when they're finally back in the safety of the Hufflepuff common room.

Derek shrugs grumpily, but immediately feels churlish. Kira is right. Laura _does_ mean well, she'd probably have some good advice for him if he'd just nut up and tell her what was actually happening. In some ways she understands him better than anyone. She's the only one who really gets what it means to grow up as a Hale, the weight of expectation that comes with that name, the constant struggle of trying to live up to it, of trying to be good enough and never _quite_ getting there. Laura worries about him, too. She always has done, ever since they were young, ever since the first time Derek burst into tears of frustration because he couldn't get a sentence out without stumbling over his words.  She even had his back against Uncle Peter, who, with casual cruelty, had sensed a weakness he could exploit for his own amusement. He'd spent years mocking Derek, belittling and teasing him when no-one else was around. He'd gotten away with it too, and then one day Laura had overheard him and risen up with righteous fury on Derek's behalf. She'd broken Peter's nose. She'd been ten.

Even so, getting sorted into different houses had probably been a good thing. It's helped him to develop other friendships, it's stopped him being dependent on Laura's social skills. It's forced him to stand on his own two feet, and forced her to let him, and that has been good for them both, and looking back now he can't believe how far he's come.

He's made friends with Kira.

He's gained confidence.

He writes and edits The Beacon.

He's a prefect.

He's a _good_ student.

He tries to be a _good_ brother.

He's learning to control his stutter.

They're all _good_ things.

It doesn't matter how much progress he's made though, he was never going to be good _enough_ for Stiles, and at the moment that feels like all that matters.

 

 

o0o

 

 

“Yule Ball,” Scott says, for the fifth time that week, waggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Stiles expression creases with annoyance, “Fuck the Yule _fucking_ ball.”

“Hey!” Scott says, “If _I_ can be positive even though Allison and I have broken up, then you _definitely_ can.”

Stiles fights a grimace. He wants to say that of _course_ Scott can be positive. Scott is a fucking puppy. He always sees the best in people, always looks for the good, and finds it too.

Even the good in Stiles.

It's infuriating.

He thinks about Lydia, about her copper hair and dimples, he thinks about how bitter and sad things are between them now.

He thinks about Derek, his dry humor and the shy, hopeful glances he had been throwing Stiles way. How now he just looks sad and disappointed.

Stiles manages not to choke on his smile, but it's a weak strangled thing. He says, “I haven't really got anyone to ask.”

Scott forehead wrinkles in thought. “We could go together,” he suggests, “I'll have more fun with you than I will with anyone else.”

 _Fucking goddammit_.

He's so sincere. So impossible to resist.

There's _warmth_ unfurling in Stiles' chest.

“Okay,” Stiles says tetchily. “Fine. We'll go together, but I'm not making out with you. I don't do incest.”

Scott snorts with laughter, “Please, I've seen the way you look at me. Wait till you see me in my dress robes, you won't be able to resist my boyish charm and rugged good looks.” He makes a ridiculous kissy face and Stiles shakes his head, smiling in spite of himself.

Scott beams. “Wait till I get you under the mistletoe, Stilinski." He winks, “I'm gonna make you forget all about Lydia Martin.” He swipes his tongue across his lips and waggles his eyebrows again.

Stiles can't fight the laugh that bubbles up, “Fuck, but you are a ridiculous human being, and might I add _fucking_ straight.” He hits Scott over the head with a throw pillow and then lunges at him trying to wrestle him into submission. He manages to knock over a chair and half a pile of books in the process. Half the Gryffindor common room are looking at him by the time they've finished and they're lying next to each other on the floor breathless with laughter.

For the first time in a couple of weeks Stiles feels a little happier.

 

o0o

 

There are some things that Stiles doesn't let himself think about too much. His mothers death and his father's struggle to say sober in the wake of it. The guilt of attending a school half a world away from his father. The gnawing feeling that he's not making the best of the opportunities that are presenting themselves at Hogwarts.

His parents were muggles. He spent the first part of his life wanting to be in law enforcement like his dad and now he's having to make choices between a bunch of implausibly named jobs. Auror. Healer. Dragonologist. Viewed from the outside the wizarding world is _weird._

How does he involve his dad in a world that is so hidden, so _alien,_ to everything that he's ever known?

The wizarding world is part of who he is now, though. He could no more give it up than he could cut off his own arm, but it breaks his heart that his dad is never really going to _get_ it. He's confused by owl post and floo powder. He refers to Stiles' schoolwork as 'that magic stuff' with a pinched expression and thin lips. It's been difficult, mostly because Stiles can't shake the feeling that he's abandoned him. He  _has_ abandoned him. It's not like he had a choice though. He didn't choose to be a wizard and he doesn't know how to reconcile what he is, with what his father expects of him.

Mostly he doesn't let himself think about it. He pushes that guilt down, and hopes that somehow, eventually, it will all be okay.

He does that with difficult things.

Derek has become one of _those_ things.

Stiles is aware he basically ghosted on their fledgling friendship; he disappeared without a trace. One moment he was dropping into the library and bringing Derek snacks, the next moment, poof! He'd apparated right out of there.

Sometimes at night when he's laying there, restless and guilty he prods at that instinct. Pokes at it, to try and figure out why his heartbreak over Lydia has made him so reticent to pursue his friendship with Derek.

If there's a reason, it's nothing he's willing to admit to himself at the moment.

Still, Hogwarts is a small school, and he can't avoid Derek forever.

It's Scott's fault really. Scott, who's halfway through telling Stiles an oh-so-interesting tale from his Care of Magical Creatures lesson earlier that day, and barrels straight into Derek and Kira just outside the Transfiguration classroom, sending parchment fluttering everywhere.

“Shit!” Scott swears, stumbling forward. “What the-? I am _so_ sorry.”

There's a moment, where Derek is staring at the floor in obvious frustration, surrounding by pages and pages of parchment. “W-why don't you look where you're-” he starts to say, but the words die in his throat as he catches Stiles' eye.

“Dude. I am _so_ sorry,” Scott repeats. He crouches down on the floor and begins to gather together pieces of parchment into messy piles.

Kira joins him instantly. Derek stands there eyes snagged on Stiles, mouth working soundlessly. His ears are crimson. Stiles' heart swoops in his chest.

He ducks his head, and crouches down to help Scott and Kira and after a second Derek joins him.

“I really wasn't looking where I was going,” Scott says ruefully, “too busy talking about the kneazle...”

“From Care of Magical Creatures?” Kira interrupts, smiling broadly, “That was amazing!” And just like that they're chatting away animatedly, and Derek and Stiles are forgotten.

Stiles picks up the last of the parchment carefully and stands, handing it to Derek. He scrubs a hand through his hair.

“Hey. How are you?”

Derek shrugs, not meeting his eyes. “I-I'm g-good," he says softly.

“Good. That's good.”

Next to them Scott and Kira have moved on from kneazles to thestrals and Stiles can tell Scott's about two minutes away from revealing his long held ambition to be a magizoologist as the two of them turn and enter the Transfiguration classroom together.

Outside the classroom, silence hangs awkwardly in the air between him and Derek.

Derek swallows, “Y-you, I-I,” He clears his throat and takes a deep breath, “I've not seen you at the library for a while.” He blushes furiously as he says it and his glasses slip precariously down his nose.

Stiles reaches out, about to push them back up, but catches himself in time and lets his arm fall to his side instead, clenching his hand into a fist. “It's been a busy couple of weeks," he says lamely.

“Yeah. Of course,” Derek says, “B-busy... I get that.” He pushes his glasses up his nose and looks away resigned.

“I was going to be there tonight,” Stiles hears himself say.

“Really?” Derek sounds uncertain.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, nudging his arm gently, “I've got homework to do, _Genius_.”

Derek's eyes narrow at the name, “Well. I guess I _might_ see you there then.” He turns and troops into transfiguration. Stiles trails after him, warmth tingling in the pit of his stomach.

 

 

o0o

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shades of dubcon here although nothing actually happens. More details in end notes if you are worried.

It's a cold evening, and the lamps in the library are casting a warm golden glow across the table. Derek is already sitting in his usual seat and he looks up as Stiles pulls a chair out and sits down.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” Stiles roots through his old bag and produces some crumpled parchment and a slightly battered looking quill.

Derek watches him silently for a moment and Stiles meets his gaze raising an eyebrow in a question.

“A-are you okay?” Derek asks, at length.

Stiles shrugs, “Yeah, I'm fine.”

Derek gaze rests on him just a moment longer. “Okay,” he says, and turns back to his work.

Stiles watches his dark head as it's bowed over whatever essay he's working on, “Are you?”

Derek looks up and quirks an eyebrow.

“Are you okay?” Stiles clarifies.

A smile flickers at the corner of Derek's mouth, “I guess.”

“You don't sound very sure,” Stiles counters.

Derek's other eyebrow joins his first, “Neither do you.”

In that moment Stiles realizes how much he's missed this for the last couple of weeks. How much he's missed Derek. “Touché, _Genius,_ ” he says fondly.

Derek's brow crinkles in annoyance and he casts Stiles a reproachful glance. “I- I asked you not to call me that,” he says, “and just mind that stack of parchment over there, it's all in order and I won't be happy if you knock it over.” He gestures to where Stiles worn textbook is touching a slumping pile of parchment on the table.

“I take it back. I didn't miss you,” Stiles mumbles under his breath, as he edges the book back a bit and picks up his quill.

“Y-you _missed_ me?” Derek asks, his head snapping up a little too quickly.

Stiles rolls his eyes affectionately, “Yeah, nerd, but not as much you missed me. I am pretty awesome after all.”

Derek's mouth drops open in disbelief, and then he laughs. It's the first time Stiles has ever really heard him laugh properly, and it's kind of nice.

“You're unbelievable!” Derek says, shaking his head.

“You mean unbelievably sexy, intelligent and charming. Right?” Stiles winks at him. It's out of his mouth before he can check himself.

Derek flushes, mouth working soundlessly for a moment, and Stiles feels a stab of guilt. He needs to stop flirting with anyone and everyone. He needs to _think_ before he speaks.

“I'm only joking-” Stiles starts to apologize, just as Derek says: “Yeah- you are.”

Stiles looks at him, and for once it's him that's been stunned into silence. “Um-”

Derek's blushing more furiously than ever, staring down at his parchment like it holds the secrets to some great mystery. His glasses are slipping down his nose again, Stiles hand clenches in the fabric of his jeans.

“Wh-what I mean is, y-you, you're a great guy,” Derek murmurs, eyes trained on his parchment. “I-I think so at least.”

Stiles isn't entirely sure whether this is a romantic declaration or whether Derek's natural shyness is making it seem that way.

“Thanks,” he says softly, feeling strangely humbled. “Not everyone agrees with you, but it's uh-- nice to-- uh--hear."

Derek nods firmly, and Stiles ducks his head down to get on with his own work, hoping that half an hour of studying will alleviate this sudden awkwardness. He can feel Derek's gaze glancing off him though, focusing on him intently when he thinks Stiles isn't looking. The familiar scratch of Derek's quill against parchment is noticeable for it's absence.

“Uh-” Derek clears his throat.

Stiles looks up expectantly.

Derek immediately looks down at his parchment, watches as his quill bleeds ink into one big blotch on the page.

“Um-” he says again, still not meeting Stiles gaze.

“Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah,” Derek says in a strangled voice. “Y-Yeah. I am.” He pauses again and clears his throat, closing his eyes. “I-I was just wondering if you're going to the Yule Ball next weekend?” He addresses the question to Stiles' tattered Defence Against the Dark Arts textbook, his cheeks are burning.

There's a knot forming in Stiles stomach. It's part dread and part anticipation. He stares at the edge of his own parchment, filled with the guilty certainty of where this line of questioning is going. He wonders what he'll say when Derek asks him out. If he even does. He isn't ready for this, he feels hesitant and desperate not to fuck up this fledgling friendship.

He clears his throat. “Um- I- yeah. Yeah, I'm going with Scott,” he says the words quickly, the verbal equivalent of ripping off a band aid. He chances a look at Derek, who meets his gaze and swallows heavily. “Will you be there?” Stiles asks casual and uneasy.

“Uh- um- y-yeah,” Derek says, and Stiles can almost feel the heat of his blush from here. “I-I-I h-have a date.”

Stiles looks up at that. “Really?” he says quickly and then winces, because his voice is pitched high with disbelief and he doesn't miss the look of hurt that flashes across Derek's face.

“Y-Yeah,” Derek says defensively, “Why d-didn't you think I could?”

“No! No. I just- it was unexpected. I didn't realize you were seeing someone,” Stiles says, words tumbling over each other in an effort to try and make things better. “I mean I'm going with Scott because he knew I was feeling down about Lydia and he said it would be cool if we just hung out as bros, you know? So not everyone is going with a _date_ date. I nearly didn't go at all to be honest. I just- I didn't know you were seeing someone.”  
  
He's said that already.

He's babbling.

_Uncool Stilinski, uncool._

Derek watches him closely, eyebrows tightly drawn. “Laura set me up,” he admits. “She and Kira think I need to stop moping over- I mean-” he trails off and looks nervous.

Stiles raises an eyebrow.

“I-I-I- th-they just think I need to stop moping about and getting bogged down in work and have some f-fun,” Derek finishes, softly. “They're probably right.”

“Scott's been the same with me,” Stiles says. “Friends, man, they mean well but sometimes-” he leaves the thought unfinished, but Derek seems to get it, and nods his agreement.

“D-Do you want to go with Scott?” Derek asks, curiously.

Stiles shrugs, “If I have to go, I'd _rather_ it be with Scott. I'm not really in a 'date' place at the moment.”

Derek looks down frowning more deeply. “I'm sorry it didn't work out between you and Lydia,” he murmurs.

Stiles grimaces, “Thanks man. Me too.”

An awkward silence stretches between them, Derek fiddles with his quill absently and Stiles can't help watching his hands. He hasn't grown into them yet, but they're strong, with their broad palms, ink-marked fingers, and fingernails bitten to the quick. He glances up to see Derek's been watching him watch his hands, and as their eyes lock Stiles feels heat creeping into his cheeks. He looks away quickly, embarrassed at being caught staring.

“Well, I hope you have a great night with your date.” Stiles' voice sounds brittle to his own ears. Even as the words leave his mouth he feels something sharp and ugly twist in his gut.

He can't put a name to it though.

Won't.

Not yet.

He isn't ready to even think it.

His body betrays him though, stomach writhing unhappily, heartbeat rushing in his ears. He folds his arms and stares unhappily down at his homework; his mood soured beyond repair.

 

o0o

 

Of course the problem with telling Stiles on the spur of the moment that he had a date, was that now he has to actually get Laura to set him up with one.

When Derek approaches her at lunchtime the next day she's gleeful for one moment, and then her face falls.

“Aw man! I was totally gonna set you up with Ethan. He was _so_ interested. He's been asking about you for ages.”

“Ethan?” Derek says swallowing hard, “Ethan? Which one is he? The Slytherin or the Ravenclaw? I'm not sure-”

“Ravenclaw. It doesn't matter now. He's going with someone else anyway. You snooze you lose, Der-bear.”

Derek is actually kind of relieved, he's aware of Ethan, but he isn't particularly attracted to him. It's irrelevant now, Laura is already excitedly searching the Great Hall for another likely candidate.

“It doesn't matter anyway, I have other options. I bet Danny would be interested, assuming he hasn't already got a-”

“No!” Derek says firmly. He couldn't, he'd feel wrong dating someone that he knows Stiles hooks up with. It'd be too- weird.

“Really? Not Danny?” Laura says, a little _too_ loudly, “but _everyone_ likes Danny.”

Derek shakes his head resolutely, “I'm sure he's lovely, but I don't-”

Laura looks at him askance and then a flash of realization passes over her face. She leans forward and hisses, “Is he the boy you like? The one you were telling me about?”

Derek shakes his head firmly, “No.”

She looks at him intently, before saying, “Okay. You wanna make this difficult, no problem, I like a challenge bro. No problem at all.” Her eyes rove the Great Hall. “If you'd only decided, like, a day ago, Ethan would've still been available,” she mutters.

“I'm sure I'll live,” Derek snipes back.

Laura's not paying attention though. “I could ask Stiles, I guess,” she murmurs, “but he's so brash and mouthy. Not really your type...”

Derek nods his agreement guiltily. There wouldn't be much worse then Laura approaching Stiles on Derek's behalf.

“...Although apparently Danny's not your type and I thought Danny was everyone's type. Do I even know what your type is?”

“I-I-I don't-” Derek begins nervously, beginning to lose faith in this whole process. He can't help feeling he'd be better off faking Spattergroit and barricading himself in his dorm room for the next week until the Yule Ball has passed.

“Erica interviewed Danny for the Beacon this week,” Laura says. “She was raving about how snarky he is, I think you'd probably get on better than you- ooh!” her eyes fix on a target, “What about Matt?”

He follows her gaze. Matt Daehler is definitely _not_ his first choice, he's always seemed a little sketchy to Derek, however, he's going to have to say yes to somebody and Hogwarts is a small school, there aren't _that_ many openly gay or bi students for him to pick from.

“Okay,” he says with the air of someone who's picking between lethal injection and the hangman's noose. “Matt it is.”

Laura looks at him and rolls her eyes, “Try not to overwhelm me with your excitement, Der. He's," she squints, "kind of cute! Come on!” She grabs his arm, flushed with excitment at her own success. “I'll be your wingman, it'll be better if you ask him out.”

Derek drags himself to his feet reluctantly. He chances one last glance at Stiles, he's sitting at the Gryffindor table with Scott, engrossed in conversation.

“Let's go, baby bro!” Laura says pulling him along in her wake.

“Baby? Two minutes difference Laura. Two!” Derek bites out as he trails after her.

“I know,” she responds, flippantly, “so why does it feel like two years most of the time?”

 

 -

 

Matt agrees to go to the Yule Ball with him. He isn't who Derek would have picked for himself, obviously, but despite his slightly awkward manners he actually seems okay. The best part is that _Derek_ asked him out without stuttering, not once.

In reality that was probably because he wasn't _that_ invested in asking him, but still, it's the first time he's going to go on a date. It's the first time he's _asked_ anyone on a date. When he's _imagined_ asking someone out in the past they've either pointed and laughed or just said no. Matt didn't do either of those things.

He's going to take it as a win,

As the date approaches though, he gets more and more nervous. What if Matt thinks that Derek _likes_ him? What if he's inadvertently leading Matt on? What if Matt is secretly in love with him and thinks this is going to be a gateway to some kind of relationship? What if he ends up awkwardly in a relationship with someone because he doesn't want to hurt their feelings?

It could happen.

Years ago, when she was very small, his sister Cora bought him Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans as part of his Christmas present. He didn't want to hurt her feelings, so he smiled and ate them all, even though he _hates_ them.

It's been years.

She still gets him a pack every year, and he hasn't got the heart to tell her that he doesn't want them. So he smiles and eats them, and there's nothing he can do. The lie has gone on too long, and he can't tell the truth.

This is going to be the relationship equivalent of that, except worse because he _started_ it. He asked someone out on a date without even really liking them.

Oh, God. If he does this he's going to end up dating Matt, he's going to end up engaged to Matt, he's going to end up married, they're going to adopt children together. He's going to be stuck with Matt for the rest of his life. They're going to be in some kind of wizarding retirement home together because Derek was to _fucking_ polite to be honest about what he wanted.

He takes a deep breath.

He knows he's being neurotic.

This is ridiculous.

For one moment, he wishes Laura were here, she's good at talking him down when he gets into crisis mode.

He keeps worrying on it, he can't help himself. He lays in bed at night, thinking about what he'll do if Matt tries to make a move on him. He tries to work out how he'll respond if Matt _expects_ anything from him when he isn't ready, not to do anything like that, not with someone he doesn't really like at least.

He isn't really a casual person. He has to know someone. Has to feel a _connection_ with them. Has to like who they are before he can even _imagine_ so much as kissing them.

Whenever he imagines kissing anyone it's Stiles. He dreams about Stiles most nights. Dreams about holding his hand as they walk through the corridors, dreams about hugging him, about brushing sweet kisses against his forehead, the warm dry press of their lips together. Stiles likes Lydia though, and although it doesn't look like that's coming to anything, there's a massive gap between Stiles getting over Lydia and Stiles wanting Derek.

Fuck. He's a complete mess.

It's two days before the Yule ball and he's managed to work himself into a state of blind panic. He's going to talk to Matt, he's going to lay his cards on the table. He's going to make sure Matt knows where he stands and if he doesn't want to go with Derek after that then that is fine, because it's the _principle_ of the thing, and Derek has to obey his own conscience. He just has to.

He shares Arithmancy with Matt so it's easy enough to ask him to talk after class. Easy enough to find a private nook in a deserted corridor to have this out.

At least he thought it would be easy, but now that they're standing here his palms are sweating horribly and his words are all getting stuck in his throat.

“So- um. I-” he begins.

It's hardly an auspicious beginning. He swallows, clears his throat and starts again.

“I-I just-” Derek begins before trailing off again. Matt looks at him, both eyebrows raised.

“Uh, so- I mean what I- um...” Derek bites his lip in frustration.

“I like Danny,” Matt says.

Derek's eyebrows disappear into his hairline.

“I like Danny,” Matt repeats. “You should know that. I'm not looking for anything... involved. This is just one date. It's casual.”

Derek feels a weight lifting from his chest and takes in a great shuddering breath, “Y-yes. Right. Casual. Th-that's fine.”

Matt smiles at him, it doesn't quite reach his eyes, “Good. I mean, I figured you'd be cool with it, but I feel like it's only fair for you to know.”

Derek nods. “Why didn't you ask Danny to go with you?”

Matt scowls, “Danny's not interested in anything permanent at the moment, he's playing the field and I told him I wanted to be exclusive.”

“A-and he was not uh- amenable to um- to your request?” Derek asked.

Matt stared at him a moment, “If you mean he isn't up for that, than no. No, he isn't. I thought maybe if I turned up with you it _might_ make him jealous.”

“Aha,” Derek says, processing this information. It sounds like a terrible idea. “Well, let's hope that works out for you.”

“Maybe we could make out near him at the ball?” Matt suggests, “See if we can't _encourage_ him to realize his feelings.”

Derek swallows. “Uh- No. I- don't- I'm um, not really up for that, so,” he finishes apologetically. The thought of it makes his skin crawl, but he tries not to show it.

Matt sighs. “Really?” he looks disappointed, “If you say so, I guess.”

 

 - 

Derek enters the Great Hall shoulder to shoulder with Matt on the night of the Yule Ball. It looks amazing. The ceiling has been enchanted so that snowflakes drift down elegantly, vanishing before they reach the floor. The long tables they usually sit at are gone and in their place are elegant round tables with snowy white table cloths, decorated with wreaths of holly, ice sculptures and twinkling lights.

The tables are piled high with food and the air is buzzing with excitement.

Matt leads them through the crowded hall together and Derek catches Laura waving at him excitedly. He waves back and then drops his hand back to his dark blue dress robes nervously. He knows he looks okay, Kira and Laura had made sure of that, but he doesn't feel very Derek-like with his hair combed just so, shaved and scrubbed and smelling of a woodsy cologne. It must have worked though, Matt had given him a lingering, appreciative look when he met up with him.

He follows Matt over to a table and takes a seat next to him, smoothing his dress robes down anxiously.

It's only then that he notices they're sitting at a table near Scott and Stiles. Stiles looks amazing and Derek feels his mouth drop open a little at the sight of him. He has black dress robes, with a blood red trim that offsets his creamy skin and warm brown eyes perfectly. He's sitting at a table with lots of other Gryffindors, and as Derek watches, he says something, and everyone at the table bursts out laughing.

Matt puts a hand on Derek's arm making him start, and then recoil quickly. “Can I get you a drink?” he asks.

Derek looks back at him guiltily, “Um- y-yes, that would be okay, I think.”

Matt grins at him, “Great. I'll be right back. Don't go anywhere.” It seems like a redundant thing to say, because where would Derek possibly go?

Matt disappears off into a crowd of students near the drinks table and Derek watches him leave.

Neither of them are here with the people they want to be, but that's no reason why they can't have a good time. He isn't going to think about Stiles again this evening, that's all. He's just going to concentrate on having a nice time with his date.

At length Matt returns carrying two glasses full of something pale and pink that Derek doesn't recognize.

“Punch,” Matt says, offering him one.

Derek takes the glass and sniffs it cautiously. Matt watches him as he takes a sip. It's warm and fruity and it burns a little at the back of his throat, but not unpleasantly.

“Good?” Matt asks, nestling in a little closer than Derek would like.

“Good,” Derek confirms, taking another swig.

 

 

o0o

 

 

It's going okay. Stiles is enjoying himself. More than he thought he would at least.

He and Scott arrived and secured a table and now half of Gryffindor are sitting with them telling jokes and laughing raucously.

He notices Lydia enter with Jackson, looking radiant in deep plum coloured dress robes. She catches his eye, and smiles at him tentatively, he manages a weak smile in return before looking away, which is when he notices Derek sitting just a table away, he sucks in a sharp gasp of air. Derek looks different somehow. He's more put together, more relaxed. He's smiling broadly at Matt and laughing, drink in hand.

Stiles feels something swoop low in his stomach and settle there, sharp and jagged. His fingers clench round his glass, pulling the skin of his knuckles tight.

“You okay, dude?” Scott asks.

“Yeah! Of course,” Stiles replies, but his voice sounds hollow to his own ears.

On the other table he watches as Matt leans over and puts a hand on Derek's arm, and leaves it there, lingering.

A look of consternation passes over Derek's face and he moves his arm away, with an apologetic smile.

Stiles exhales in relief. When he looks back to Scott, his friend is watching him with a knowing grin.

“Which one is it then?” he asks, “Derek or Matt?”

Stiles takes a long slug of his punch and replaces the glass on the table carefully.

“Does it have to be either of them?” he says lightly.

“Dude,” Scott says reproachfully, “I have known you a _long_ time now. I've only seen you look that way at one other person.”

“What way?”

Scott shrugs, “Cut open, raw, pissed, adoring. It's a complicated look. I call it- Lydia Martin face.” He looks across to Derek and Matt. “It's Hale isn't it? Should I be renaming it Derek Hale face?”

Stiles runs a hand through his hair feeling tired all of a sudden. “It's a complicated look for a complicated feeling,” he admits finally.

“How complicated can it be? I don't think he's actually dating Matt. You're not dating anyone. What's the problem?”

“Because... because I really like him. I _really_ like him. You know when you just connect with someone and you know it could be good? Really, really good.”

“Yeah, I know that feeling. That's great!” Scott looks adorably confused.

“If I got together with Derek I'd want to be right. I'd want it to mean something, I wouldn't want it to be a rebound thing from Lydia, I'd want it to have a chance- and at the moment I'm worried I'm still too raw from Lydia to really make it work. Derek doesn't deserve that. He deserves the best." Stiles blushes. "He deserves someone who's only focused on him.”

“So you'd rather just scowl at his date from across the Great Hall,” Scott says.

Stiles shrugs, “I already fucked up my friendship with Lydia big time. I don't want to do that with Derek.”

“You haven't fucked things up with Lydia," Scott says, " and besides, I didn't know you and Derek were that close."

“We- we've been getting closer,” Stiles admits, “in the last few weeks I've been getting to know him and he's a pretty great guy.”

Scott looks at him seriously. “Honestly, you should go for it. Ask him out. I mean, you can tell him you want to take it really slow. If he's a good guy he'll understand that. But you sound like you've got it bad, dude, and If you wait-” he nods over at the table where Derek and Matt sit, laughing together, “if you wait you may not get a chance at all.”

 

 

o0o

 

 

The evening passes in a blur of good food and loud music and puuuunnnncccchhh. Matt is good company at least, he seems to have become better company as the evening has gone on. Sure, at first Derek had been worried he was skeevy, but the more he sits here, warmth spreading out through him, the more he's overcome with a feeling of goodwill. Matt has been attentive. He keeps bringing Derek drinks and then touching his arm or his knee, and sure, Derek could do without the touching, but it's fine. He's fine. It probably doesn't mean anything, and anyway they have an understanding.

Matt knows it's not like Derek wants to- how does Laura phrase it? Oh Circe, yeah- put a ring on it. (That is such a weird expression. Put a ring on it. Put. A. Ring. On. It. Put. A. Ring-)

What was he thinking? _Merlin_ , the Christmas decorations look amazing. He loves Christmas at Hogwarts. Loves everything about it. It's all wonderful. He feels so good right now. Matt has his hand on his arm again, he's gripping it now, quite tightly, and he's leaning in, smiling. He has a weird smile. It doesn't quite reach his eyes.

God! Laura and Kira are coming over. They're wonderful, Derek loves them. He loves them both so much. They're his best friends and he really, really, really, really loves them. Even though Laura is annoying sometimes and Kira is obsessed with strange animals. At least Laura loves him and Kira doesn't smell like strange animals, which is the important thing, and sure, maybe that will change once she moves to Norway. He'll still love her even then though. She's his best friend in the whole world. He couldn't ask for better friends not really. He's lucky they have him. No. Wait a minute. He has them. They have his back. Is that right? He's lucky, anyway. That's the important thing. He's even lucky to have Laura.

“Thanks,” Laura says looking at him oddly.

Kira leans forward and picks up his glass, he makes to grab it. It's his glass. Not hers. She should get her own punch. Why is she sniffing it? What's wrong with her?

Merlin's beard. Where was she dragged up? Smelling people's drinks just isn't done. It's... It's terrible breach of drink etiquette, is what it is. Someone's probably written a book about it. Dammit, he's a  _Hale,_ they've probably got a copy of that book in his parent's library.

Derek grabs at his glass again and finally manages to get it back. He takes a long sip. Matt has his hand on his knee, under the table, Derek can feel it creeping up the inside of his thigh. It feels weird and tingly. He pushes Matt's hand away, because no. He is too handsy and Derek doesn't want his babies. He's too young and he doesn't think that he could have a baby with Matt anyway. Not even with magic.

Matt looks a bit pissed. So do Laura and Kira now he comes to think about it.

Derek blinks at them owlishly. He feels a bit hot actually? You know what would make that a lot better though? Punch.

That punch is amazing.

Kira has her hand over his glass and Laura looks stony.

“No more punch for you, Der,” Kira says apologetically.

Laura leans in and sniffs, “God, he smells like a brewery.”

Which is ridiculous, because this is just fruit punch. It's not like Derek has been _drinking._ They don't serve alcoholic drinks at Hogwarts.

Laura starts getting angry, soon she's shouting at Matt and God she is so loud. She is so loud _always._ Kira's hair is pretty and so soft. So, so, soft. If he could just rest his face against it he might be able to fall asleep. Because right now sleep sounds pretty good.

“We need to get him outside to get some air. Sober him up a bit,” Laura says, her mouth a tight line.

Sober up? It's just fruit punch though so that is a ridiculous sugges- _oh fuck,_ the world is spinning as he stands. He grabs on to the table to steady himself. Kira sticks an arm round his waist and holds on tightly.

 

 

o0o

 

Stiles has been cutting some of his best moves on the dance floor, he's actually managing to enjoy himself, but it's hot in the Great Hall now and so he comes back to his table for a glass of water. That's when he catches sight of Laura Hale, she's squaring up to Matt Daehler, expression tight with fury. Derek's standing next to her, his posture stooped and awkward, Kira's arm round his waist, she seems to be holding him up, just about.

He doesn't think twice, he just walks over.

“... and I will castrate you with a rusty spoon you fucking jerk.” Laura spits, pushing the sleeves of her dress robes up the generous curve of her forearm, hands balling into fists. She looks like she's about two steps away from whipping out her wand.

Matt looks sulky. “Yeah, yeah. It was just to loosen him up a bit. I wasn't going to _do_ anything.”

Stiles glances at Derek who is flushed and glassy eyed. “Is everything okay?” he asks.

“Stiles!” Derek leans forward and slurs happily, “I jus', I jus' love you! You are so sooooo won'erful. You are so kind and you bring me food and I love seeing you in the library every night. I loooove it. That's like the best part of my day. The total best part. When you didn't turn up for a bit I thought- Oh God- it's because I'm such a loser, I mean why would Stiles be friends with me? Right? I mean you're cool and super smart and funny and you have really great hands. Really, really great. I think about them like A LOT and when I didn't see you I just I missed you. I really, really missed you.”

Kira winces at this artless, slurring, disjointed speech. “He's a little drunk,” she says needlessly.

“You don't say,” Stiles responds with a wry smile.

“Only because this dick spiked his drink,” Laura spits, “so he could take advantage of him later.”

Stiles' hands bunch into fists and he turns to glare at Matt, jaw clenched so tight he can feel his teeth grinding together.

Matt sighs. “He _asked_ me to get him a drink,” he says petulantly.

“He would never have asked for alcohol!” Laura counters acidly, her hands on her hips.

“How do you know?” Matt says snidely, folding his arms, “You weren't sitting with us. It's not my fault he can't hold his drink.”

“He doesn't drink, shithead,” she hisses. “At home he won't even eat Christmas pudding because it's got alcohol in it, he doesn't like the taste. There is no way, _no way_ , he willingly got completely shit-faced at a school ball. He's never even had detention.”

Derek reaches forward and runs an unwieldy hand through Stiles hair. “He has nice hair,” he whispers loudly to Kira, “and he smells like the forest after a storm.”

Stiles closes his eyes and exhales deeply, trying to keep hold of the ragged shreds of his temper, because he cannot afford to lose his shit with Matt here. The priority here has to be Derek.

“I think you should leave,” he says to Matt, when he opens his eyes again, his voice cold as stone. “You've done enough damage, and you're not welcome anymore.”

“I feel soooo dizzy,” says Derek. “I need to stop it being dizzy. C-Can I do that? Is there a s-spell? A de-dizzyfying spell? I feel like that's a thing there should be.”

Matt glares at them all angrily, and for one moment Stiles thinks he might be about to try something, but then Matt looks at Laura, whose hand is reaching for her wand, and Stiles whose hands are bunched into fists and seems to think better of it. “God you guys are lame!” he spits as he turns on his heel to leave.

“I am going to hex him in every conceivable way!” Laura says murderously, hand clasped round her wand.

Stiles reaches for her arm. “Not here!” he says. “Too many teachers.”

She wrenches her arm away from him. “Fuck!” she swears. “This is all my fault. I suggested he go out with that dickhead.”

Stiles shrugs, “You didn't know what he'd do, and anyway time for guilt later, now we need to focus on Derek.”

“A little help might be nice,” Kira says, buckling under Derek's weight, as he leans into her heavily.

Stiles wraps an arm round him, recoiling a little at the strong smell of alcohol that assaults his senses as Derek's head lolls on his shoulder.

“I'll help you walk him back and get him up to his room,” he says. “You come with and let us into the Hufflepuff common room.”

Kira nods, “Not a problem.”

“I'll sneak down to the Hospital wing, see if I can find something that might sober him up,” Laura says.

“There's some hangover cure somewhere about,” Stiles tells her. “If you can't find any stashed in the Hospital wing then Professor Harris' quarters will probably have some. I don't think he's been entirely sober for a single lesson this term. Assuming you can find a way in.”

Laura nods smartly. “Trust me. It won't be a problem."

 

 - 

 

They make slow unsteady progress back to the Hufflepuff common room. Kira and Stiles trying their best to share the weight of Derek between them.

It's made more difficult by the fact that Derek keeps trying to give long rambling histories about portraits and tapestries that they pass, or trying to convince them to let him fall asleep on the cold stone floor of the corridor.

Eventually though, Kira is giving the password and Stiles is getting his first ever look the inside the Hufflepuff common room.

Derek tries to detach himself from Kira and Stiles, as if he's going to stumble into the closest available gold and black sofa. Stiles holds him back though.

“No, no, no,  big guy, you need to lie down on your bed. If you get settled here, anyone might wander in and find you.”

Kira points. “The boy's dorms are this way-”

When they're finally in Derek's room, Derek staggers toward his bed, collapsing on it in a graceless heap.

“Bed,” he mutters, “so good. Good bed.”

Kira looks down at him fondly.

“He's a happy drunk,” Stiles says, “I guess that's something.”

A shadow passes over her face. “We should have been finding that out on Derek's terms, not Matt Daehler's.” 

Stiles nods his agreement, and then leans forward and begins to work off one of Derek's shoes. It finally comes off and he places it neatly at the foot of the bed.

“Will you wait with him?” Kira asks, “I need to go and wait for Laura outside the common room. We forgot to give her the password and it's changed recently.”

Stiles nods, “Of course.”

Kira smiles. “You're a good friend to him,” she says, “I'm so pleased he's got you.”

“Derek seems to be surrounded by people who care about him,” Stiles points out, working off the second shoe.

“Yeah, I guess.” She looks a little sad. She's dashed lightly out of the room before he can ask her about it though.

Stiles sighs deeply, and runs his hands through his hair, surveying the prone form on the bed in front of him.

The silence in the room is broken by the guttural sound of a snore.

He smiles, feeling affection bloom in his chest, and moves forward to crouch on the floor, near where Derek's head is nestled into a squashy looking pillow.

Derek's glasses are jammed awkwardly against his face though, and oh-so-gently, Stiles leans forward to take them, finally working them free and placing them on the bedside table.

Derek looks younger like this, his face slack in sleep, more open and boyish. He has long dark eyelashes, sharp cheekbones and a strong jaw. Stiles has always thought he was attractive, but now he realizes he's actually kind of beautiful. Stiles rests his hand near to Derek's face,  he can feel the comforting huff of Derek's breath reassuring him that he's okay.

If he'd been Derek's date for the ball tonight they might still be dancing.

Derek would definitely still be sober.

They probably would of had a good time.

Is he being too cautious here? Denying himself something good? Scared of putting his heart on the line again?

He huffs out a sigh, his breath ghosting over Derek's skin.

Derek stirs, his eyes blink blearily in and out of focus. “Stiles...” he slurs.

Stiles manages a slight smile, “Hey, Der.”

Derek reaches forward a little managing to tangle his fingers with Stiles' own. “You're here," he says grinning dopily at him, "M'pleased you're here." A frown creases Derek's brow, "Y'look upset, somethin' wrong?" He reaches out a hand and tangles their fingers together.

Stiles looks down at the hot press of their hands, his skin tingling. He swallows and rests his head on the edge of the mattress. "Nothing's wrong Der. You're fine. This is just... just a dream,” Stiles says gently. "Yeah, it's just a dream. Don't worry.”

Derek's eyes widen a little in acceptance and understanding and he gives a little choked off laugh, he draws Stiles fingers to his mouth and presses a tender kiss to them, and the gesture steals the air from Stiles lungs.

“Why's it always jus' a dream?” Derek mumbles, closing his eyes again.

Within a minute he's snoring soundly.

Stiles leaves their hands tangled together, the ghost of Derek's lips burning against his fingers. He sits their lost in his own thoughts, right up until he hears Kira and Laura making their way up the stairs to Derek's room. 

 

 

o0o

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Derek attends Yule Ball with Matt, who spikes his drink in an attempt to loosen him up. When Laura, Kira & Stiles realize what's happened they intervene quickly.


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles springs to his feet as Kira and Laura arrive clutching a bottle of hangover cure, but by that time Derek is out for the count, in such a heavy sleep that neither he nor Kira or Laura have the heart to wake him.

The girls look at Derek anxiously and discuss in hushed tones whether one of them should stay with him in case he's sick in the night. They have no idea how much he's been given to drink or what kind of effect it's going to have on him, and they both seem a little uncertain about how to proceed.

“He'll probably be fine,” Stiles says in a low voice, he doesn't want to point out just _how_ much experience he has dealing with alcohol and its side effects. “If you want me to though, I could wait with him, at least until someone from his dorm gets back who can keep an eye on him.”

They looked at each other uncertainly. “Are you sure?” Laura asks, “It's the Yule Ball and that seems like... a lot.”

Stiles shrugs, feigning nonchalance, “You guys both have actual dates, I was with Scott, he won't mind, just let him know where I am when you get back.”

Laura glances uncertainly at Kira, but whatever she sees in her expression seems to reassure her.

“Okay,” she says eventually, “let us know if you need anything.”

She looks down at Derek's inert form in the bed. A loud snore emanates from him, and the noise seems to rumble round the room. She rolls her eyes, but reaches out a hand and lightly touches the back of his head, stroking her fingers through his hair.

“Fucking loser," she says, but her tone, and the soft expression in her eyes rob the words of any heat.

“He'll be fine,” Kira says, “Stiles will look after him.” She shoots Stiles a look that's just a little too  _knowing,_ and Stiles feels heat rush to his cheeks. He can only hope the dim light in the room hides it.

“He better,” Laura says gruffly, “Or I will personally detach his balls with a spoon and feed them to the thestrals.”

Stiles blanches and Kira shoots Laura a reproachful look.

Laura sighs and all the fight seems to drain out of her, her shoulders sag. “Sorry, Stilinski,” she mutters, “You seem like a good guy, I shouldn't have said that. I'm just- I'm furious with myself and with Matt. I didn't mean to take it out on you.”

“It's fine-” Stiles says, “I get it.” He offers her a small smile, which she returns tentatively.

Kira and Laura turn to leave and as he listens to their footsteps fade down the stone steps he sighs deeply. This isn't exactly how he expected this evening to turn out.

He spends a moment looking across at Derek. His bare feet are hanging over the edge of the bed, his face smushed into a pillow, arms bent awkwardly. He looks like he's probably going to wake with a crick in his neck and a pounding headache in the morning; he isn't under the covers either and as the night wears on and the temperature drops he'll get cold. Without thinking Stiles moves forward and grabs a spare blanket placing it gently over Derek and tucking him in carefully. Derek snuffles into his pillow and mumbles something unintelligible in his sleep. Stiles feels himself smiling before he's even aware of the impulse to do it.

For a moment he wonders what he should do. Sit on the hard floor all evening? Lie down next to Derek on the bed? There's enough room and it's tempting, but it feels creepy to do that when Derek's not aware of it, when he hasn't offered it. Whatever this is between them, it's _something,_ and Stiles wants to do this right. He doesn't want to take advantage. With that in mind he looks around the room and spots a heavy looking armchair tucked away in one corner. With a swish and a flick of his wand he levitates it over silently and brings it to rest on the floor by Derek's bed. Then after a moment's thought he conjures a bucket. He doesn't think Derek's going to be sick, but it's probably best to be prepared.

He settles into the armchair, letting his head fall back into it. The Yule Ball is going to go on for a while, and even when it's finished, there's no guarantee that a bunch of seventh years are going to come straight back to their dorm room afterwards. There are all kinds of shenanigans they could get up to. Normally Stiles would be there too, right in the thick of it, finding someone to make out with, knocking back a few drinks, sneaking through the castle to find a secluded spot and passing out in the early hours of the morning. Probably after some long, heartfelt, teary-eyed conversation with Scott. The sort of talk that feels like the most significant thing in the world at the time, and one that neither of them would be able to remember in the morning. As he looks at Derek though he doesn't regret being here now, slumped in an armchair in a strange room. This is Derek and it feels like it's where he's meant to be.

He flicks his wand and the drapes around Derek's four poster bed twitch shut. His wand dangles lazily between his fingers as he yawns widely, suddenly tired. He might as well settle in, he's likely to be here for a while.

 

-

 

He doesn't know when he fell asleep or what wakes him, all he knows is that it's still dark, the room is quiet but for the sound of breathing; not just his and Derek's but the other guys Derek shares a room with. Obviously people have come back from the ball and he's slept through it. He grimaces, cracking his neck a little from where he's fallen asleep awkwardly in the armchair. Derek's still asleep in the bed, but his breathing isn't as heavy and he seems to be sleeping a little easier.

Stiles fumbles down the side of the armchair for his wand and then mumbles under his breath, “ _Lumos_." His wand glows dimly and he checks the time. It's 5AM. Derek is likely going to be fine. Stiles really needs to get back to his own room. He needs to sleep in a proper bed. Silently he gets up, mutters a few spells, restoring the chair to it's proper place and vanishing the bucket. If Derek got this far without being sick, he almost certainly won't need it now.

He moves over to the bed to take one last look at Derek's sleeping form. The other boy's hair is smushed down awkwardly on the side of his head, his mouth is open and his pillow looks damp to Stiles, even in the dim light cast by the wand. He looks adorable and Stiles' heart flutters madly in his chest. Without thinking he reaches out and smooths down Derek's hair, running his fingers through it gently. It's soft. Softer than it looks and just that brief contact makes his stomach swoop like he's on a roller-coaster.

He hadn't let himself think about how much he was starting to like Derek. He'd known it in some essential part of himself though. It was only when Scott had asked him outright last night that he'd finally admitted his growing feelings. The thing is, he can lie to himself, he does it all the time, but he can't lie to Scott, not really, he never could. Admitting his feelings out loud had been cathartic though, and now, as he trails his fingers lightly through Derek's hair, he realizes all in a rush that he wants more. Wants to touch more, wants to run his fingers down the sharp line of Derek's jaw, wants to play with the short black hairs that curl at the nape of his neck. He wants to smooth out the little frown lines that crease Derek's brow. He wants to lay down next to him, thread their fingers together and lean into the warmth of him. He wants to let that warmth, and the steady tempo of Derek's breathing lull him into proper sleep. He wants to wake up later this morning wrapped round each other and share shy, languid, morning-breath kisses, too lazy and loved up to go down to breakfast. The rush of want is so quick, so sharp that he's almost dizzy with it.

He's fucking screwed.

He shakes his head ruefully, and withdraws his hand reluctantly. After a moment's thought he conjures a glass of water and places it and the hangover cure on the bedside table, set back a little from where he left Derek's glasses so Derek will be sure to find them in the morning.

Then, silently, he sneaks out from between the heavy drapes, out the dorm room door and down the steps. He flees to the Gryffindor common room before anyone wakes and asks him awkward questions.

 

o0o

 

Derek wakes with a dry, pounding headache, a mouth that tastes like he's been eating his pillow and only a fumbling grasp on his memories from the previous night.

He lifts his head from the bed gingerly and his head throbs ominously, he sinks back into his pillow, which is wet. Drool he realizes absently, a lake of drool that he must of produced while he slept.

His eyes flutter shut and he tries to reclaim sleep, but, after five minutes listening to his brain knock belligerently against the inside of his skull, he knows he's going to need to get water at least.

Slowly he opens his eyes, wincing at the cold winter sunshine that's slicing through the heavy black and gold drapes, mining the darkness of the room.

His vision is blurry and he has no idea what he did with his glasses last night. No memory of it at all, but as he's groping around blindly his hand knocks against them sitting on his bedside cabinet. He lets out a hiss of surprise, they're not in their case, and definitely not in the drawer where he normally keeps them. As he puts them on he knows that's one more mystery about last night that he's going to have to work out today.

Once he's got them on and his eyes have adjusted to the dim greyness of the room, he realizes that someone has put a glass of water on his bedside cabinet, and there's a bottle of something there too.

He looks around for his wand, for a confused moment, and then realizes he's still wearing his dress robes and fumbles around in a pocket for a second before feeling his fingers grasp the comforting length of it.

He likes his wand, it's ash, twelve inches and dragon heartstring. It's a good wand.

“ _Lumos!_ ” he croaks, and as light appears at the tip of his wand he leans over to examine the bottle on the bedside table, his head protesting as he does so. Hieronymous Hinklebottoms Hangover cure. His head throbs ominously and his stomach swoops. He tries to think back, to remember what exactly _happened_ last night. He remembers getting ready, Kira and Laura standing with him as he looks himself in the mirror. He remembers feeling good about the night ahead, optimistic even. He remembers meeting his date and feeling a little flutter of pride at the appreciative look in Matt's eyes, preening slightly under his gaze and thinking, “See, I can look good. It's not impossible that someone would notice me.”

He remembers entering the Great Hall and sitting with Matt, he remembers the swoop in his stomach when he looked at Stiles and how much he'd ached to be near him. He's remembers Matt being attentive though, getting him drinks and... and then it all just fades, coalescing into a muzzy uncomfortable mess. He tries to grasp the strands of the memories but they keep slipping away from him, just out of his reach. He reaches forward uses the light from the tip of his wand to illuminate the instructions on the label of the hangover cure. Then, carefully, he measures himself out an exact dose and swallows it.

For a moment there's nothing, and then slowly it's like someone pouring something cool and soothing in right at the base of his skull spreading outward across his aching head until every bit of him feels awake, cool and refreshed. Like a breath mint for the brain, he muses.

Carefully he gets up, and dresses. He needs to find Kira or Laura. He needs to find someone, anyone, who can tell him what actually happened last night.

 

o0o

 

Stiles doesn't see Derek until that evening. He was wondering if he'd see him at all today, given how drunk he'd been last night, but Derek's there before him at dinner time, sitting at the Hufflepuff table next to Kira.

Scott notices him looking at Derek and nudges him with an elbow, “You should go over and talk to him, dude!”

Stiles grimaces, “You think?”

“Yeah!” Scott says, nodding enthusiastically, “I'm not saying you have to ask him out or anything, but you could ask how he is. Let him know you care!”

Stiles sighs. Sometimes he envies Scott. He seems to see everything in life laid out clearly in over-saturated technicolor, like a childs picture book. He instinctively knows what to do or think about something and on the rare occasions when things don't go his way, his boyish charm and sweet smile go a long way to fixing things. Stiles, on the other hand, feels like he's in a gallery standing too close to impressionist art to ever know what it is he's actually looking at. His life is just a blurred smudge of confused color. If he could step back far enough, it might resolve into _something,_ but he's too close to it and so he spends his whole time blindly guessing how to respond when he can't make out the full picture.

“Go on, dude!” Scott says again, grinning madly.

“You're a fucking menace,” Stiles spits, but he stands up anyway.

“Aw man, don't be like that, you're no fun when you're like this and truthfully? I just wanna see you happy!” Scott replies, and the sentiment is so artless, so utterly _fucking_ Scott, that Stiles can't help grinning at him.

“Fine, I'm going. Don't say I never do anything for you,” Stiles mutters, dragging himself over to the Hufflepuff table.

Kira sees him coming and offers him a small smile, “Hey Stiles!” 

“Hey Kira,” Stiles replies, “Derek.”

Derek doesn't look up, he seems to be pushing the food round his plate listlessly.

“Not hungry?” Stiles asks, pulling up a chair opposite them and sitting down.

Derek shrugs but as Stiles watches he blushes to the roots of his hair.

“I'm never hungry when I'm hungover,” Stiles adds, when Derek doesn't say anything.

“Th-th-thanks for last n-night,” Derek mutters finally, glancing up quickly to meet Stiles' eyes, and then looking back down at his plate again.

Stiles sucks in a breath, because the look on Derek's face is just- _haunted._ Stiles glances at Kira who meets his eyes and shakes her head a little sadly.

“Hey!” Stiles says in a low voice, “You don't need to apologize, it wasn't your fault.”

Derek looks down and away, not saying anything.

“Besides,” Stiles continues, “I kind of owed you. You did the same for me. Remember?”

Derek swallows, but still won't look up.

Stiles glances at Kira again, her eyes are wide and she's biting her lip.

An unhappy silence descends between them, then, all of a sudden, Derek stands abruptly. “I-I-I-I'll see you b-back a-at the c-common r-room l-later!” he mumbles at Kira. He doesn't look at Stiles, just runs out of the Great Hall like a herd of angry hippogriffs are chasing him.

Stiles half gets out of his chair to follow, but Kira places a hand on his arm. “Let him go,” she says gently, “I'll follow him in a minute.”

“Are you sure?” Stiles says, his eyes on the door that Derek just disappeared through.

Kira nods, “Yeah.”

Stiles shifts in his seat. “Is he angry with me?” He can't think why Derek would be,  he's been racking his brains, but coming up with nothing.

Kira shakes her head vigorously, “No! God no!” she bites her lip nervously her eyes flicking to the entrance to the Great Hall like she expects Derek to come back through any moment. She pauses for a long while, then takes a deep breath and looks him right in the eye, “Do you like him Stiles?” 

“Who Derek?” Stiles laughs, “Yeah! Of course! He's a great guy.”

She rolls her eyes, “No. I'm not asking if you like him, I'm asking if you _like_ him.” She fixes him with a penetrating stare, “Don't lie to me. I'll know if you're lying.”

Stiles swallows, looks down and plucks at a stray thread on his shirt sleeve. “Uh- yeah,” he says, thickly, “Yeah. I _like_ him. A lot.”

He chances a glance up and Kira beams at him serenely. “Good!” she says, “Are you going to ask him out?”

Stiles swallows, blinks slowly, “Maybe. I was- planning to- um- work my way up to it. Y'know. Eventually.”

She arches an eyebrow. “You sound nervous about it,” she says, “that's not like you.”

Stiles bristles. “How would you know what's 'like me',” he counters, “we barely know each other.”

“Pshaw,” she waves a hand airily, “half the school knows about your hook-ups, you've hardly been discreet.”

Stiles pales, and his mouth sets in a thin line. “I didn't think you'd be the type to believe rumours,” he says, “and anyway, it's none of your business.”

"I'm not cricizing you," she says, "if that's what you think. I'd be the worst kind of hypocrite if I did. My concern here is Derek." She fixes him with a piercing gaze, they stare at each other. Stalemate.

“Fine!” Stiles says eventually, throwing his hands up in the air in exasperation. “Derek's special okay? He isn't just a hook up, or he wouldn't be if I- If we... He's- I'd want- It'd be- but Lydia... I'd want to do it right...” he trails off, unable to articulate the mess of emotion that he's experienced in the last few weeks.

Kira reaches out a hand. “Okay,” she pats his arm gently, “Okay. I get it. I think.” She sighs, “Derek's okay. He'll be okay. He's just angry and embarrassed. He hates not being in control, it's a big thing for him and he gets very anxious. I think part of that stems from his struggle with his stutter to be honest, but he hates feeling that he isn't absolutely in control of things. What happened with Matt really shook him up.”

Stiles pauses, thinking back over all his conversations with Derek. “He has a stutter,” he says, testing the words out. It makes sense, now he thinks about it. The way Derek's so careful to speak, so thoughtful. How he sometimes takes a couple of attempts to start a sentence. 

Kira nods, “He's worked really hard to overcome it, but it was really really pronounced when he was a kid, like, _really_ pronounced. He got bullied for it a lot. He's worked really hard to get round it, and for the most part he does, but it's left him some self-esteem issues. Not to mention, there's some family stuff,” she sighs and looks away. “That thing with Matt couldn't have gone much worse from Derek's perspective. He likes to be in control. He hates to feel dependent on Laura. He would never want to embarrass himself in front of you.”

“In front of me?” Stiles echoes.

The look she shoots him is painfully dry, “Don't pretend you don't know he likes you, Stilinski. We both know you're not stupid.”

Stiles looks down and away, “He's too good for me!” he mutters, “He just so sweet, so...”

Kira clicks her tongue impatiently, “Fucking patronising rubbish,” she says, and Stiles jaw drops a little at her _swearing_. She continues, “He's an overly-controlling, grumpy, sassy, anxious, insecure dick half the time, but he's also the best friend I've ever had. He's loyal and brave and intelligent and he tries really hard to do the right thing. I love him, but don't pretend he's perfect, Stiles. You'll both be disappointed if you do.”

Stiles mouth shuts again and he nods abruptly. “What should I do?” he asks. “He won't even look at me.”

Kira grimaces. “I'll talk to him,” she says, “smooth things over, try to get him to see past his own embarrassment. You need to stop sending him mixed messages though, if you want him then make a move, if you don't then leave him alone and let him move on. He's never going to be good with a casual relationship Stiles, and if he thinks there's even half a chance with you, he isn't going to look anywhere else.”

Stiles swallows, taps his finger nervously against the table. “I like Derek, I more than like him,” he begins, “but you should know that I'm still getting over this massive unrequited love thing for Lydia, I don't want Derek to be a rebound thing. I don't want to rush into this and do it wrong.”

Kira studies him carefully and Stiles shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“Look, I'm not exactly an expert when it comes to this romantic crap, but can I ask you a question?” she asks, and Stiles nods. “If Lydia and Derek were both sitting here now, both asking you out, which one would you go on a date with. Derek or Lydia?”

He pauses for a moment, considering the question. He thinks about Lydia, about her sharp mind and her long copper hair, her dimpled smile and her soft curves. He thinks about the flash of her eyes as she argues her point, her poise and confidence. He worships her, he's always thought she was utterly perfect.

He thinks about Derek and his reluctant smile, his strong jawline, and the glasses that are forever slipping down his nose. He thinks about the way he got so passionate talking about the Sorting Hat, about how nervous he'd been going into the school kitchens. His wry sense of humor. How hard he works. How hard Stiles has been working since he's met him. How being with Derek makes him _want_ to be a better person.

He thinks about what Kira just said about Derek's flaws. He thinks about how he's built Lydia up to be this impossible goddess in his mind, and how disappointed he's been in her since she rejected him, since she's slipped off the pedestal he placed her on. Suddenly it all seems so fucked up.

“I think,” he says slowly, “I think I was in love with an idea of Lydia, an ideal. That's not who she really is though, that was just who I built her up to be in my mind. Whereas with Derek I got to know him and then realized I was attracted to him. It's different. It's- Derek.” He meets her gaze, “Derek. I'd choose Derek.” He inhales shakily, “I'm going to ask him out,” he says, “but I wanna take it slowly.”

Kira smiles ruefully, “As things stand, 'slowly' might be your only option.”

 

o0o

 


	11. Chapter 11

Derek feels mortified. Embarrassed. Angry. Stupid.

 _Fucking_ Matt.

Blurry memories from the night before come back piecemeal throughout the day, helped in part by Kira's stumbling attempts to fill in the gaps.

He has vague recollections now of Matt being a little handsy, nothing too terrible, a hand on his knee or grazing his thigh, fingers brushing up his arm. Matt hadn't--he hadn't _done_ anything to Derek, but it was still more than Derek would have allowed if he'd been sober. Enough to make him feel uncomfortable, uneasy, maybe a little violated. It's unsettling not to have been in control.

Despite the fog and blur of it all there are two things he remembers with startling clarity. The first is Matt's voice, petulant and irritable, saying 'I just wanted to loosen him up a little.' The thought of that moment fills Derek with white hot shame. He knows it's stupid to fixate on it. It's ridiculous to worry about the opinion of someone he has no respect for, but he can't help wondering-- is he that bad of a date? Is he that dull, that the first time anyone went anywhere with him they felt the need to 'loosen him up' just to make the evening enjoyable? The thought nags at him constantly.

The second thing he remembers, the worst thing, is that he has vague memories of saying stuff to Stiles. Things he wouldn't have said if he'd been sober. There's one particularly horrifying sliver of memory – where he runs his fingers through Stiles' hair. He can see Stiles' face in his mind's eye, pale and angry, and it makes his stomach flip horribly. He can't even look at Stiles now, and when Stiles tried to talk to him this evening at tea time he ran out of the Great Hall feeling like he was going to throw up in the nearest suit of armor.

He's shaking by the time he reaches the Hufflepuff Common Room. He takes the stairs to his dorm two at a time, and then throws himself down on his bed and buries his face under the pillows.

If Matt Daehler can't get through an evening without being bored shitless how will anyone ever want to date him? How will he ever get Stiles to be interested? Especially now he's been so transparent, throwing himself at Stiles in a way that was obviously unwelcome.

He's still wallowing in self-loathing half an hour later when Kira sneaks in and sits on the end of his bed.

“Go away!” he says, voice muffled, “I'm doing homework.”

She snorts derisively. “With your head under a pillow?”

Derek shuffles so he can just about see her face, his head still half-buried under his pillows. “Arithmancy!” he says, petulantly, “It requires a great deal of thought. I was allowing my subconscious mind to work on the problem. It's a thing. People do that.”

Kira gives the back of his calf a good-natured smack, “You're a terrible liar.”

He purses his lips and sighs. “Fine, I'm just...” he trails off and there's an awkward pause.

“Hey, you don't have to say anything,” Kira says rubbing a hand over his calf in soothing circles. “It's fine. It's okay to be upset about what happened, Der.”

Derek swallows round a painful lump that's forming in his throat. “Thanks,” he manages, voice still muffled by the pillow.

“You want me to go, or you want a hug?” Kira asks.

What he _actually_ wants is secret option number three, to apparate away from Hogwarts and join a different school instead. Somewhere he can reinvent himself. Somewhere he'll be the cool new kid and not the gay nerd with a stutter who hangs out in the library all the time.

He shrugs, but the movement loses something because he's lying down. “Hug," he murmurs eventually.

“Are you gonna sit up so I can hug you then?”

He shakes his head sulkily.

Kira sighs and climbs onto the bed, maneuvering herself so she's lying behind him; she wraps her arms round his chest and hooks her chin over his shoulder, so she's the big spoon.

Derek feels a little of the tension knotting in his stomach unravel and for a while there's nothing but the sound of their rhythmic breathing. There's a comforting familiarity to this. Big hugs in moments of emotional crisis is kind of their deal. When Kira had been homesick back in their first year they camped out on the floor of the common room together all night, snuggled under a blanket while Derek told stories to make her feel better.

In the second year, after he had stammered so profoundly in a potions class that he fled in embarrassment, she had found him and sat on his bed with him, one arm wrapped awkwardly around his shoulders, waiting patiently for him to find his words again.

He had come out to her in this third year, stumbling over his words as he confessed that he was gay, admitting his crush on Stiles in the next breath, and she had hugged him then too.

She had sat on his bed and cried in his arms in the fifth year when her parents marriage hit a rocky patch, and although he hadn't known what to say, just hugging it out seemed to help a little. The truth is, whatever else happens, he knows they'll always have each other and he feels himself relax a little as her arms tighten around his chest.

Eventually Kira murmurs, “Did you know that in Nordic mythology the Draugr are bloated undead corpses that guard treasure? Apparently they crush people, devour their flesh and drink their blood or just drive them completely mental. Depends on how they feel.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. “I- did not. Thanks for-uh- sharing?”

He can feel Kira grinning against his shoulder, “I was just thinking you know, when I finally get this placement in Norway I can look them out, maybe introduce Matt to one on your behalf. Y'know... if you want me to.”

Derek snorts, “As if you would.” He pauses for a moment, and then says, “Are- are you, um- telling me that these Drgrerers are real then? Because if they're real, I may reconsider my plans to visit you in Norway after we graduate.”

Kira shrugs. “Draugr,” she corrects, with perfect pronunciation, “and I don't know. They might be?”

He shakes his head ruefully, “Reassuring--”

“I'm just saying, even the flesh eating undead have to survive y'know?” Kira says, “and if we've got to feed them _something,_ then maybe the Matt Daehlers of this world would be as good a starting place as any. It's not like anyone would miss that dick.”

Derek pretends to consider this for a moment, “You always seem so bright and sunny, but there's this bloodthirsty streak isn't there?”

She sighs. "Only a privileged few get to see it. I wouldn't pretend to offer to feed someone to a Draugr to avenge just _anybody_.”

Derek grins in spite of himself, “Well I feel like a special snowflake now.”

She tightens her arms round him, until he feels his bones creak. “You'll always be special to me,” she says releasing him and sitting up right. “Sorry,” she adds apologetically, “I wanna keep hugging you but that position is making my arm numb.”

He rolls over so he can see her. “Thanks,” he says. “For being there the other night at the Yule Ball and for this-” he gestures between them.

She rolls her eyes, but she's smiling, “Don't be silly, Der. That's what friends do.” In that moment he feels another surge of guilt, because what happened between him and Matt hadn't just ruined his evening, it had affected Laura, Kira and Stiles' night as well.

“Are you okay though?” he asks tentatively “I mean- apart from everything that happened, you had a good time at the Yule Ball. Right? I didn't ruin it for you with my-” he trails off waving a hand vaguely, in a way that hopefully conveys, 'inadvertent drunken shenanigans.'

She nods, “It was fine. Besides, I wasn't the one looking after you for most of it. It was Stiles that stayed on and made sure you didn't choke on your own vomit.”

Derek flushes to the roots of his hair and stares down at his hands.

She reaches out her hand and squeezes his, “He insisted on doing it, Der, he wanted to. He _likes_ you.”

“Yeah, well,” Derek shrugs, “he probably felt he kind of owed me.”

Kira wrinkles her nose thoughtfully, “I don't think so- I mean maybe that was _part_ of it but... at the risk of repeating myself, have you considered that he actually _li_ _kes you._ ”

Derek buries his face back in his pillow. “Can we not talk about this now?” he says, feeling himself blush. “I just...”

Kira sighs heavily, “Fine, but just... give him a chance to talk to you yeah? I know you're embarrassed, but-”

“Okay! Okay. I'll try.” Derek says grumpily.

“Good,” Kira says, pleased. She drops a kiss on the top of his head and hops off his bed. “See you downstairs, yeah? I've got to go work on my application form.” He knows the application form she means. It's eighteen feet long and she's been working on it all week. If she's successful, then after they've finished at Hogwarts she'll be guaranteed an internship at the foremost sanctuary for the conservation of magical creatures in Norway. It's a big deal, and he knows that she'd be perfect for the job.

Derek nods, “Yeah, I'll be down in five. I'll proof read it for you if you want.”

She smiles at him, relieved, “Thanks, Der, you're the best.”

 

o0o

 

Stiles hangs out at the library that night. Waiting at their table while pretending to do homework. Madam Pince keeps looking at him suspiciously, and for one moment he's really tempted to do something crazy like conjure a swamp, just to justify all the foreboding looks she's throwing his way. He doesn't though, at some point he hopes Derek will come back to their table. He hopes they'll be able to pick up where they left off, but Derek doesn't show.  
  
Stiles sees him during Transfiguration the next day, he looks pale and he won't meet Stiles' eyes. In fact, he barely looks up through the whole lesson and runs for the door as soon as they're dismissed. By the time Stiles has thrown his own stuff in his bag and rushed to the door after him, Derek may as well have apparated into thin air.

He doesn't appear in the Great Hall at lunch time, and he isn't in the library either, Stiles knows because he checks, and hangs out there again.

For an hour.

Like a loser.

Stiles finally sees Derek _again_ at dinnertime that evening, and before he can second guess himself he's striding across to the Hufflepuff table, determined to say something, _anything,_ to try and make things better.

Laura steps in his path before he can get there.

“Stilinski,” she says, she seems to be grinning, although it looks more like she's-- baring her teeth.

“Hale," he spares her a glance, but his eyes are on Derek.

“I want to talk to you,” she says, putting a firm hand on his arm.

“Fine, can we do this later though? I need to talk to your brother.”

She tightens her grip, fingers digging into his forearm, “Please, I need to talk to you about the night of the Yule Ball.”

Stiles looks at her properly then, “What about it?”

She purses her lips, “What you did, with Derek– it was really good of you to look out for him.” Her words don't quite match her tone, she sounds guarded.

Stiles shrugs, his eyes drifting back across to the Hufflepuff table. “S'okay. It's what friends do," he murmurs.

She drops her hand and positions herself firmly between him and the Hufflepuff table, then fixes him with a piercing gaze. “Yeah about that-- I didn't realize you and Der were such good friends.” It's sort of phrased as a question, but there's an accusation buried in there somewhere.

Stiles frees himself from her grip and crosses his arms. “Well we are," he says, “Why? Did we need to get your permission first?”

She folds her arms across her chest and glares, “No. No of course not.”

He smirks. “Good to know. Well- if it's okay with you, I'm off to see my _friend."_ And God, he know he's being a sarcastic little shit, but something about the way she's scowling at him really gets his hackles up.

Laura flinches and then sighs, sagging a little. “I'm sorry,” she blurts and he glances back at her, “I didn't- I don't mean it to come across like I'm accusing you or suspicious. It's just- I worry about him.”

Stiles' smile is paper thin. “Fair enough,” he says finally, “apology accepted.”

She swallows and for the first time in all the years he's known her she looks a little young, vulnerable even. “I'm protective, over-protective, but you- I normally know who his- I'm not used to not knowing who-” she exhales noisily, “Nope, there's no way to say it that doesn't sound really possessive and fucked up. Okay. Fine. I'm backing away. Go to your _friend._ ”

“You realize that sounded like a command?” Stiles says, grinning.

She tips of ears flush red and she glares, “Shut up, I just have a naturally assertive personality.”

“So... bossy then?”

She rolls her eyes, “Go speak to Derek, Stiles!” She jabs a finger in the direction of the Hufflepuff table.

“Your natural assertiveness is compelling me to obey. Thank God you were here. What would I have done without you?”

“I hate you.”

“Thanks for looking out for my bro, Stiles! You're awesome," he mimics in an approximation of Laura's voice. "That's okay, Laura. I didn't do it for you. I happen to think Derek's pretty great," he says exaggerating his own deeper voice.

Laura flips him off as she stomps away and he laughs, when he looks back to the Hufflepuff table, Derek has gone.

 

 

o0o

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

“Hey Derek! Hi. Look. I just...” Stiles exhales, “Have I-? Are you-? Did I do something? Did I overstep in some way, because I feel like I definitely did something, but I don't know what and so I just want to apologise, because I've obviously made you feel uncomfortable in some way, or offended you and I'm not sure what I did, but I want you to know I didn't mean to do or say anything to... I mean, if you're not interested or if you don't want to be friends or hang out any more than that's okay. I'll be sad and everything, but I'll back off if that's what you want, but I just wanted to say that if I can fix this then I'd like to. If you want me to. I mean... Oh Merlin, you're doing the thing with your eyebrows. I fucked up didn't I? Shit-”

Derek's eyes skitter nervously round the third floor corridor. He's literally just left the bathroom to find Stiles waiting in ambush for him. He isn't entirely sure he understood everything Stiles just said, but the general theme seems to be-

“I-I-I-I-I'm,” he begins nervously, interrupting Stiles' diatribe. Derek's words are not working for him, he's too strung out, heart knocking furiously against his rib cage, sweat trickling down his spine. He swallows, closes his eyes, and takes a long slow breath out. Then he clears his throat and tries again. “I-It's not you," he manages.

Stiles tilts his head to one side. “Really, dude?” he says in disbelief, “because the way you run in the opposite direction whenever you see me suggests otherwise.”

Derek swallows again, and looks at the scuffed toes of his sneakers, he breathes carefully, focusing on getting the words out, because they need to be said. “I-it's y-you who-” he stumbles, starts again, “I-I-I should be apologizing to you!” He glances up quickly to meet Stiles' eyes, his ears flush red.

Stiles eyes widen in surprise, “What? Why?”

Derek shrugs, looks back down at the worn toe of his shoes, digs his fingers into the strap of his backpack.

Stiles takes a step closer, his ratty converse just encroaching into Derek's field of vision. “What do you mean, Derek?” he asks softly, “Why would you say that?” He takes another step forward and he's close now, Derek can almost feel the heat radiating from him, or maybe it's just his imagination.

“I-I-I- d-d-didn't mean to m-m-ake y-you uncomfortable,” Derek says, “w-w-when I was d-d-drunk.”

“You made me uncomfortable when you were drunk," Stiles says slowly.

“W-w-w-with the t-touching," Derek manages, blushing furiously. He can't look up to see Stiles' face. He just can't.

There's a pause, “Do you mean when you kissed me?” Stiles asks, confused.

There's another pause, this one feels like it lasts for hours, but it's actually probably only a millisecond, and during that pause the bottom drops out of Derek's world. “I kissed you?” he squeaks, his utter shock forcing the words past his lips without a stammer.

 _He_ kissed Stiles.

He _kissed_ Stiles.

He kissed _Stiles_.

Oh God. He is the worst. He doesn't even remember it. Here he is worrying about how disgusted Stiles had been with him running his fingers through his hair and leering and now... He kissed him and he didn't choose it, can't even remember it, because he was drunk.

He takes a couple of deep breaths, because he can feel a panic attack building. He can feel that horrible sensation of drowning on dry land, breath burning in his chest and he wants to calm down he wants to...

“Hey, Derek.” Stiles reaches out, lets his hand hover over his arm for a second, like he isn't sure how to proceed. “It's fine... you kissed my hand, well, my fingers," Stiles admits, “I think you thought it was a dream...” He trails off and Derek chances a glance at him. Stiles is blushing furiously as well. Which makes sense. Why wouldn't he be embarrassed to have to... to put up with Derek's unwanted attention. Oh God.

“S-s-s-sorry,” Derek manages, “I-I-I-I'll j-just...” _Stay out of your way from now on. Disappear off to the nearest empty classroom to die of mortification. Pine forever._ He turns on his heel, and all but runs.

“Fuck!” he hears Stiles shout, “Derek? What the hell?” There's the sound of Stiles' sneakers running after him, squeaking against the stone floors of the corridors.

Derek's breath is coming in short, stabby gasps now and his eyes are burning like he might cry. He just needs to-

“Derek will you stop? Derek! Derek! I liked it okay? I liked that you kissed me!” The last part is shouted at top volume down the corridor, and Derek doesn't have to look to know that half the students in the corridor have turned to stare at them.

Blindly he turns into the empty Charms classroom in an attempt to escape their prying eyes. Stiles follows him in and the door bangs shut after him.

Derek flings his backpack to the floor, and crouches down clutching his head between his hands. His ears are ringing and his stomach roils.

“Shit! Derek are you okay? Oh Dude, are you having a panic attack?” Stiles crouches down in front of him, and Derek can't focus on him he feels so dizzy, “Okay, Derek, okay. I'm here. You're going to be fine. Just focus on me.” Stiles reaches out a hand and places it on Derek's shoulder, a warm, comforting weight. “You're going to be fine, you're going to be okay, try and breathe with me if you can...”

Stiles keeps up a soothing litany of nonsense while Derek falls apart. He isn't sure how long they stay that way, but somehow they end up forehead to forehead, Stiles' breath a warm puff against his cheek. “Breathe with me, Derek, breathe with me. In and out. In and out. You're doing well.”

It's a while before he manages it, manages to copy the slow rhythm of Stiles' breathing. It's a while before his heart rate slows, a while before he stops feeling like he's going to be sick. Stiles stays with him through all of it, the weight of his hand tethering Derek to his own body. Without that there to anchor him, Derek feels like he might float away.

They breathe together, Derek consciously trying to mimic Stiles' slow deep breaths, letting his lungs fill again. Letting the tension dissipate with each exhale.

When Derek finally opens his eyes again Stiles is right there, forehead slightly damp against his own, wide, whisky-colored eyes trained on him anxiously. They're so close and for a long moment, they just stare.

Stiles is looking at him like- well- not like anyone has ever looked at Derek before, and it's doing things to Derek's heart, things he probably needs to stop. He's just coming down from a panic attack after all.

Reluctantly Derek leans back, breaking the contact. He edges back until he's sitting propped up against the classroom door with his legs stretched out in front of him. He can feel the blood rushing back into them, muscles grateful for the change in position.

Stiles is still kneeling before him, face a mask of uncertainty. “Feeling better?” he asks.

Derek nods.

Silence falls between them and it's a tense unwieldy thing. Normally Derek would welcome it, but he just needs to know. “How did you know what to do?” he blurts out.

Stiles proffers a small smile and crawls across to sit next to Derek, mirroring his position. He leaves a careful gap between them. “I used to get them after my mom died," he admits eventually, “still do occasionally.”

“Oh.” Derek doesn't know what to say to that. Feels like he should say something. Something like, 'Sorry about your mum,' but it just feels so inadequate and the more time stretches between them without him saying something, the more he doesn't know what to say.

He exhales unsteadily, takes his glasses off and wipes them carefully on his t-shirt. “I-If you ever want to talk about her, I could- you could do that with me. I-If you want to.” He chances a glance up at Stiles as he says it, and he can feel the blush creeping up his cheeks.

The look Stiles is giving him is fond, almost tender. “Thanks Derek,” he says softly, “maybe one day I will.”

Derek nods, busies himself by checking his glasses for smudges so he doesn't have to keep looking at Stiles face, because that look is not something he feels he can deal with quite yet. Just as he starts to put the glasses on again Stiles reaches a hand out. “Can I?” he asks.

Derek shrugs and passes the glasses to him. Stiles peers through the lenses. “Woah. You really need these!” he mutters as he puts them on. He turns to Derek, “How do I look?”

Derek glances at him. The truth Stiles could wear pretty much anything and Derek would always think he looked amazing, but the glasses? The glasses look good. “They're okay,” he mumbles.

Stiles cranes round looking in vain for a reflective surface, “Merlin, I wish I could see myself, just okay? Really? They don't make me look super intelligent or hot?”

Derek rolls his eyes irritably, “You always look hot and you're already intelligent so-” the words are out before he can rein them in.

Stiles head whips round so fast he's probably got whiplash.

“I-I should have those,” Derek says, feining a calmness he doesn't feel. He reaches out and plucks them off Stiles nose, trying hard to ignore the way Stiles is positively beaming at him. He knows his own face is now physically incapable of blushing any redder.

Whatever's happening here is so far beyond Derek's experience that he doesn't know what the next step is. Isn't even sure he's ready for it. He crosses his legs and places his hands loosely in his lap, staring at them, like they might have the answers. Before the panic attack overtook him completely Stiles had said he liked the fact that Derek had kissed him. Did he like it enough to want to do it again? Is Derek even ready for that today if Stiles does?

“I don't look as hot as you,” Stiles murmurs, so soft it's barely audible. Derek glances over to look at him. Stiles hugs his knees tightly to his chest, resting his forehead against them.

Derek swallows and pushes his glasses further up his nose with his index finger, “P-Pardon?” 

Stiles turns his head to the side a little, one eye cracked so he can see Derek, color stains his cheek.

“I said, I'm not as hot as you, in those," he says gesturing at the glasses. There's a slightly teasing, almost obnoxious edge to it, like he's daring Derek to disbelieve him.

“Not as hot as me," Derek echoes.

Stiles lifts his head, incredulously, “Yes. Merlin's beard, take the fucking compliment will you, Hale. You look hot in your glasses okay? You want me to say it again?”

Derek shakes his head, jaw working soundlessly.

Stiles huffs out a little laugh. “I kind of wanna kiss you right now, but I also don't want to induce a panic attack and I just-” he sighs, “can I?” He reaches out a hand, places it palm up on the small sliver of floor between them.

Derek considers it for a moment, heart in his mouth.

Slowly he reaches out his own hand and places it in Stiles'. Stiles' fingers close around his own, warm and slightly sweaty. Derek stares at their hands tangled together, can't take his eyes off it. His eyes flick up nervously to meet Stiles'.

Slowly, not taking his eyes from Derek's, Stiles lifts Derek's hand to his mouth. He places a kiss, warm and dry, against Derek's fingers. Then lets their hands fall back to the floor.   
  
Derek stares at their hands, still clasped tightly. He can feel the ghost of Stiles' lips still warm against his fingers and something warm swoops low in his stomach. He exhales shakily and lets his head fall back against the door. Then he turns his head to Stiles, and smiles.

 

o0o

 


	13. Chapter 13

Stiles hasn't felt like this in a long time, maybe ever. He feels buzzed, like he's taken something or drunk too much, but he hasn't done either. He's got so much energy though and he just wants to run it off somehow. Wants to race through the castle knocking the pictures off the walls, whooping and laughing. He wants to get on his broom and fly as high as he can, feel the wind whipping through his hair as he chases clouds across the sky. He wants to go find Derek and drag him to their corner of the library, push him up against a bookshelf and kiss him, feel the solid warmth of him, his hard angles and soft skin. Wants to feel the scratch of his stubble, the curve of his cheek, the hard line of his dick pressing up against Stiles' hip through...

_Fuck._

He's getting horny, and he knows he's got to slow down, they're not there yet. They won't be there for a while probably. Kira advised him to take things slowly and he doesn't want to fuck this up. He's going to have to let Derek take the lead on this stuff, let them go at his pace. Try not to push.

He can do that.

He can do that and not die of blue balls in the process.  
  
Probably.

If he has to take some extra long showers for the next few weeks, or months even, then that's just fine. It'll be worth it. Worth it to feel Derek's hand pressed into his, warm and slightly sweaty. Worth it to see the complicated eyebrow gymnastics Derek performs every time he tries not to smile at something Stiles has said. Worth it to see the way Derek's eyes flash when he's making some impassioned argument. It'll be worth it to see that shy smile bloom across Derek's face, the one where his eyes crinkle at the corners. The one that feels like it's just for him.

Stiles throws himself back on the bed, and flicks his wand at the curtains. They close with a rustle of heavy fabric.

He thinks about Derek, sitting with his back to the door in the old charms classroom, winter sunshine streaming in through the window, illuminating dust motes in the air. He thinks about the way the light catches Derek's eyes making them iridescent and how his own breath caught in his throat at the sight of it. He thinks about the sweep of Derek's dark lashes against his cheek, the slightly red mark on the bridge of his nose when he removed his glasses. The way Derek's jeans are slightly too short and reveal his white socks. He thinks about the tug and stretch of Derek's thin cotton t-shirt, that settles taut over his shoulders, and lets himself think about what Derek's body is like underneath. He thinks about the slow, sweet smile Derek had given him, slightly disbelieving but so, so genuine.

 _Fuck_ he thinks, as he palms himself through his jeans, _I am_ so _screwed._

 

o0o

 

Derek's feet take him back to the Hufflepuff common room on muscle memory alone, his brain is otherwise engaged, replaying the last hour again and again in his head. He can still feel the ghost of Stiles' lips against his fingers, can see his own goofy smile reflected back at him on Stiles' face.

This is what it's like when someone likes you back.  
  
No wonder half the student body at Hogwarts never seems to be getting any work done.

He can't stop smiling.

As soon as he enters the common room Kira takes one look at him, grabs him by the hand and drags him over to a couch in the corner.

“So?” she says, eyes sparkling.

“Uh-” he begins, not sure where to start, “I had a panic attack.”

Kira's hand flies to her mouth, stricken,“Oh no! Are you okay?”

He nods, and his glasses slip down his nose a little, “S-Stiles was there, he helped me th-through it. H-he was really good.”

She reaches out, squeezes his shoulder, “Good. I'm glad. That he was there for you, obviously. Not that you had a panic attack. What triggered it?”

He shrugs in embarrassment, “J-Just me, being m-me. Overthinking stuff I think. Misunderstandings. S-Social anxiety. T-The usual.”

“But Stiles was supportive?” she says anxiously.

He nods, “Y-Yeah, he uh- I mean. He was, and I think he um- likes me. So- I mean, well...” He shrugs again. He can feel himself blushing, and he's unable to articulate what he wants to say, Kira seems to get it though.

She bounces out of her chair and fist pumps the air, “Yes!” She does a little victory dance, snapping her fingers and shimmying. She's ridiculous and wonderful and Derek can't stop _smiling._ She plops down in the seat next to him again and points a finger, “I knew if you two spent a bit of time together you could sort this thing out! I'm so happy for you!” She lunges at him, hugging so tight he can barely breath. A proper _Kira_ hug.

“What about you?” he says, when she finally lets go. “What about that guy you went to the Yule Ball with?”

“Corey? He's fine. We're just friends. I mean, sure we fooled around a bit, it was fun, I'll spare you the details, but it wasn't like a _date_ date. You know that.”

“Yeah but,” he's cautious, because as much as they discuss Derek's love life, they don't often talk about hers, “is there anyone out there you would want to _date_ date? Like a relationship?”

She shrugs and fidgets a little in her seat, “Not really. Not at the moment, that's never really been a thing for me. I've never felt _that_ way about someone.” She meets his gaze steadily, “I guess if I met someone I really liked and got to know and trusted or something. I don't know. I mean, I definitely couldn't just like someone like _that._ ” She snaps her fingers and grins, “And okay, my life isn't perfect. My parents are still patching things together, and I'm a bit behind with my school work, and if I let myself think about it I worry about that massive application I sent off the other day then _I'll_ probably have a panic attack, but I never worry about the relationship thing. I never feel like I'm missing out. I feel... content, complete, just being me.”

“Good.” He nudges her shoulder, “I need you to teach me how to do that.”

“What?” she asks, confused.

“Be content. I'm just... I wish I could be that way. Not constantly worrying over the next thing, or over-analyzing everything y'know. I've come to the conclusion that most of the things I worry about are actually only problems in my own head. I'd convinced myself of all kinds of stuff about Stiles after the Yule Ball, and literally none of it was true.”

Kira snorts with laughter, “Well, I could probably stand to be a _bit_ more worried about some stuff. I have an essay for charms that I've still not finished and it's due in tomorrow. Whereas you probably wrote it two weeks ago.”

“Three actually,” Derek confesses, dolefully.

She giggles, “Well how about this? You come sit with me while I finish up, and tell me all about where you're going to take Stiles on your first date.”

Derek pushes his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, and scratches his head,“W-we didn't arrange to- I mean- h-he didn't ask me to, b-but then he did, y-know, with my h-hand so p-probably w-we are...”

Kira raises in an eyebrow, “Take a run at that sentence again for me Der? I'm not sure I understood.”

He takes a deep breath. “W-we didn't discuss dating,” Derek says, “but he kissed my hand so- I mean... I guess I could a-ask him. I mean he said he finds me attractive, but I don't want to presume...”

She gurgles with laughter, “He watched over you all night when some asshole got you drunk at the Yule Ball, he told you he finds you attractive, he kissed your hand. Derek, _I think it's okay to presume._ ”  
  
He gnaws at his lip, “I'm overthinking things again aren't I?”

She nods, eyes bright with laughter, “You wouldn't be you if you didn't. Come on. Come sit with me while I do my homework and we'll go over your date options.”

 

o0o

 

It isn't like Stiles gets to see a lot of Derek during the next day or so. It's stolen glances and shy smiles across the Great Hall at mealtimes. Derek has a new issue of The Beacon to prepare, seventh years to interview, and Stiles has a Quidditch game coming up. There's plenty to keep them both busy and apart. Stiles can't stop looking though, can't help the way he's always aware of where Derek is, or the way his heart beats quicker in his chest whenever Derek's eyes lock onto his own.

Even Scott notices one evening as they're sitting in the Great Hall eating dinner, glances between the two of them before exclaiming, “Are you eye fucking Derek Hale? _Dude._ ” He slaps him on the back, “That's great!”  
  
“Not eye-fucking,” Stiles hisses out of the corner of his mouth, not quite able to drag his eyes away from Derek, “It's more like eye- _wooing_ , or eye- _courting_ ,” He stuffs a forkful of mashed potato into his mouth, and swallows, not bothering to chew. “It's eye- _taking it slow_ and _doing it right_. There's not been any fucking so far, eye or otherwise.” He can feel the look Scott's giving him, part puppy, part proud, part incredulous.

He wrenches his eyes away from Derek to meet Scott's gaze. “What?” he asks, through another mouthful of mashed potato. All of a sudden he feels self-conscious.

Scott shakes his head, eyes shining. “Man,” he says, “I'm so happy. It's like you but- not...” He makes an expansive gesture, unable to finish the sentence.

Stiles doesn't need him to.

Scott's a hopeless romantic with a big heart. Up until now Stiles love life has been about casual hookups or pining over Lydia. There's never been anything like this.

“Yeah okay,” Stiles mumbles, his cheeks heating up. “It's not a big deal.”

“Dude!” Scott looks at him with wide, reproachful eyes, “We both know that's not true.”

Stiles blushes harder. “There's nothing wrong with fucking,” he says feeling a little defensive. “I don't regret anyone I've been with.”

“Hey!” Scott holds his hands up, “That is _not_ what I meant. No judgement here. I just- I wanna see you happy dude, and you haven't always _seemed_ happy y'know. Like you were hung up on Lydia for _so_ long, that it didn't really feel like you could let yourself be happy with anyone else. But just now... when you look at Derek, when you talk about him, you look...”

“...happy?” Stiles finishes for him, his stomach flipping, because... yeah, he feels happy.

 _Derek_ makes him happy and that's _huge._

 

-

 

“Derek!” Stiles calls. Derek doesn't hear him over the hubbub of the corridor, he's striding ahead on his way to Transfiguration like he's on a mission. Stiles swears under his breath and hurries after him, jostling through the corridors crowded with students, shouting his name again.  
  
By the time he's within earshot of Derek he's had to sprint the length of a corridor, avoiding statues, suits of armor and students like some kind urban free-runner and he's out of breath.

“Derek!” he gasps. This time Derek hears him and turns to see who's calling.

“S-Stiles!” he says stopping. His eyebrows drawn together in concern, “Are you okay?”

“Y-yeah?” Stiles says, bending over and resting his hands against his knees. He tries to catch his breath, “Merlin. How do you move so quickly? _I'm_ supposed to be the Quidditch player, _you're_ the nerd.”

Derek colors slightly, but manages to raise an imperious eyebrow. “I run f-five miles every day,” he says, “Quidditch involves _sitting_ on a _broom._ It's not exactly a cardiovascular workout is it?”  
  
“Y-you run?” Stiles says, squinting up at him, still gasping. Derek nods. Stiles straightens a little and looks at him askance, “Where do you run?”

Derek hunches over a little and looks down, “J-Just round the Black Lake every day.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. The Black Lake is actually _huge._ “When?”

“I-In the m-morning. It's not a big deal.” Derek's ears redden further, he looks adorable. 

Stiles nudges his shoulder and leans in a little, “What do you wear?”

Derek shrugs, still looking down, “It depends on the weather, a t-shirt and normally shorts or sweatpants. Why?” He glances up curiously.

“No reason. Just trying to get a visual. Hmm... how short are the shorts?” Stiles asks, grinning.

Derek glares then, ears glowing crimson. He elbows Stiles in the side, “Dick!”

“You can see your dick?” Stiles says, feigning surprise, “Wow. I may have to join you on these morning runs. Y'know. For _reasons_.”

 “D-do you  really think you could keep up?” Derek smirks, because when he forgets he's shy and awkward he's actually a sassy  _bastard,_ apparently.

“That's a good question, before I answer it I have to know. Are we talking about running or dicks here?” Stiles gives his best shit-eating grin.

Derek stifles a laugh. “Running,” he says, “And I don't want to be rude, but you just got out of breath chasing me down a corridor. I'm not sure you're ready to run round the Black Lake.”

Stiles considers, “Maybe. Maybe you could help me work up to it. It might be fun.”

Derek smiles, small and genuine. “W-Well, maybe I'd like that.”

Stiles beams back at him, heart thumping in his chest. “So-” he says, “Transfiguration?”

Derek nods. Stiles reaches out a hand tentatively, leaves it hanging awkwardly in the air between them, “Y-wanna?”

Derek takes a deep breath and reaches out, threads his fingers through Stiles'. Stiles feels warmth spreading through him, feels his grin widen, impossibly.

Their shoulders knock as they walk down the corridor to Transfiguration together, hand in hand. Stiles can't help sneaking glances at Derek's profile as they walk, his messy black hair, the slope of his long nose, his sharp cheekbones and thick eyelashes, there's a telltale smudge of ink on his cheek. “What?” Derek says stopping. He looks self conscious, and Stiles winces. He was so sure he was being sneaky.

He feels himself blush, “Nothing, just-” he reaches out with his free hand and brushes his thumb across Derek's cheek, rubbing gently, “You've got ink-” Derek stills under Stiles' touch, eyes wide and vulnerable and Stiles' breath catches in his throat.

“Y-Yeah. Th-That happens a lot,” Derek stammers. They stare at each other, until Stiles withdraws his hand because it's awkward. They're not quite at the stage where the moment can sustain itself. Not yet. Stiles ducks his head and looks away. He feels Derek tighten his grasp round Stiles hand.

“H-Hogsmeade,” Derek says, stumbling over the word a little. Stiles looks across at him. “C-Come to H-Hogsmeade this w-weekend,” he says. Then softly, “Please?”

Stiles smiles, warm and genuine. “Yeah. I'd like that!” He squeezes Derek's hand in return, “It's a date.”

 

 

o0o

 


	14. Chapter 14

The truth of it is this: Stiles has done a lot of stuff. He's enjoyed himself, sexually speaking, in the last couple of years. Hand-jobs, blow-jobs, a _lot_ of sex. He's gone down on Heather a few times, hell, one time he fucked Caitlin up against a statue of Boris the Bewildered while the rest of the school were watching Slytherin and Hufflepuff play Quidditch. He doesn't regret any of it, but he's slowly realizing that there may be some stuff he _hasn't_ done.  _Obviously,_ there's gonna be some sex stuff that he hasn't done, he's an eighteen year old wizard in the middle of studying for his N.E.W.T.s, not a porn star. It was only when he started this _thing_ with Derek the other day though that he realized he'd never held someone's hand before. Not with romantic intent anyway.

Is that weird?

Is it weirder that that one gesture with Derek in the charms classroom feels so much more intimate then say... giving Danny a quick hand-job in the library? It _feels_ weird to admit it, and yet he feels the truth of it squirming in his stomach whenever he thinks about that it; whenever his mind settles on the image, the sense memory of his palm touching Derek’s, their fingers tangled together, warm and safe.

The thought of it _does_ things to him.

Things he can't really explain.

Then there's the moment in the corridor the other day, where they'd held hands again, and Stiles had brushed away the ink smudge on Derek's cheek. The soft expanse of skin, the vulnerable, hopeful look in Derek's eyes. The way his own breath had caught in his throat, while his heart beat restlessly in his chest. It's a moment suspended in his mind, timeless and complete. So _real_. He can't stop thinking about it. Those two moments feel like the most intimate thing he's ever done with _anyone_.

How does that even work?

He wants to find someone and ask them about it, because it can't be... normal? _Can it?_

It's only when he's lying in bed on Saturday morning, the day that he's supposed to be going to Hogsmeade with Derek, that he realizes he's never actually been on a _date_ before either. (The closest he's come is feeling someone up on the couch in the Gryffindor common room after a Quidditch match. He's pretty sure that doesn't count.)

Maybe if he'd been a muggle and gone to a muggle school things would be different. He'd still be living with his dad, probably have a curfew. His first romantic and sexual experiences would likely have been linked, one blossoming organically out of the other. That didn't happen though, and maybe it's the lack of parental input, maybe it's the fact he's around his peers pretty much twenty-four seven, maybe it would have happened anyway. Maybe they're just separate things. He's never really thought about it before and he doesn't know the answer, but for whatever reason, he's starting to realize that he's compartmentalized those two parts of himself. Allowed himself to focus all his romantic fantasies on Lydia, while not holding back from getting as much sexual experience as he could, wherever he could find it. Now he looks at it, for all his sexual escapades, romantically speaking, he's new to everything.

What do people do on dates?

What kind of romantic gestures are appropriate or welcome? He doesn't want to be cheesy or come on too strong.

How do you transition from romance to sex and keep both things going at the _same_ time? In the quiet of his room that feels like an _impossible_ juggling act.

He has _questions_ , but no answers and his brain can't stop thinking about it. For the first time in his life he has someone who interests him sexually and romantically, someone who he has an emotional connection with, someone who reciprocates his feelings. This is completely uncharted territory. He feels jittery and nervous. He doesn't want to fuck this up.

He fumbles for his watch on the bedside table, it's 7AM, earlier than he'd ever normally get up on a Saturday but he can't sleep now.

He's too excited, too anxious, too _invested_ to go back to sleep again.

He grabs his wand, rolls out of bed and stumbles across the few feet that separate Scott's bed from his own.

“Scotty!” he hisses, “Scott!”

“Hmm?” Scott murmurs blearily, rolling onto his side.

“Scott! Are you awake?”

Scott grunts and rolls away, tucking his head under his pillow. Stiles grimaces, “Scott!”

He sits on the edge of Scott's bed and bounces up and down, making the mattress springs creak. Yeah, he's an obnoxious asshole. “Scooootttt!” he whines.

“Circe's saggy tits, Stilinski!” comes a voice from across the room, “It's Saturday morning! Bone McCall some other time, or put up a silencing charm at least!”

“Fuck you, Garrett!” Stiles calls, but he throws up a silencing charm anyway. When he does finally get Scott awake and talking he doesn't want half his dorm listening in.

“Scott!” he says again, shaking him by the shoulder.

“Oh my God, Stiles! What?” Scott groans, eyes blinking blearily in gloom.

“I need your advice,” Stiles begs, “it's important. _Please_.”

It's the please that does it Stiles thinks. Scott lays there for a moment, blinking up at the canopy of his four poster bed and sighs deeply, rolling to face Stiles.

“What?”

“I'm going on a date,” Stiles says, “with Derek.”

“I know, dude,” Scott says a voice still crusty with sleep, “and I'm happy for you, but it's Saturday morning and I kinda wanted to sleep.”

“But I've never done _it_ before!” Stiles says, an edge of panic creeping into his voice.

Scott blinks up at him, then props himself up onto one elbow and looks at Stiles seriously, “I thought you said you'd done, y'know... _it.._. with Caitlin and Danny and... besides, it's just a date. I'm sure Derek won't be expecting you to put out.”

Stiles grinds his fingers into his temple, beginning to feel a little manic. “No!” he hisses, “I've done _it_. Of course I've done _it_. I wasn't lying about that- Merlin's beard. I haven't y'know-” He looks at Scott significantly.

Scott looks back at him blankly.

“I've never been on a _date_ before.”

“Wha-?” Scott looks at him, adorably confused, “Shit!” he sits up in the bed, black hair tousled. “I'd never thought about it like that!” Stiles looks down at his hands.

“Hey man, it's not a problem. I mean- you'll be fine,” Scott says reassuringly.

“Will I? _Will I?_ ” Stiles asks, “I seem to be fine at the 'having casual sex' part, but I think we can both agree that I royally fucked up with Lydia. Now I have someone who I care about _and_ who seems to feel the same way about me. What if I come on too strong? What if I scare him off? What if he gets to know me better and I'm not what he wants?”

Scott rubs his eyes and yawns so hard his jaw cracks, “Dude, you didn't fuck up with Lydia.”

“Uh. We're not really speaking now, so I have to disagree with you,” Stiles responds.

“ _You're_ not speaking to _her,_ ” Scott points out.

Stiles draws his knees up and rests his chin on them, “We argued Scott. It was really bad, I'm pretty sure she doesn't want to see me at the moment.”

“She asks after you, a lot actually." He scowls, a flash of irritation crosses his face. "She cares about you. I think she's just giving you space,” Scott says, shrugging.

“Space?” Stiles echoes dully.

“Yeah, man. You were hurting. She didn't want to make it worse. She still wants to be friends though. Trust me. I hear about it from her, a _lot._ ”

“Huh.” Stiles considers this for a moment, his view of the past few weeks shifting to accommodate this new information. The knowledge settles on him, eases something in his chest that he hadn't even realized was aching.

“Derek likes you, man,” Scott continues, “I don't think you have to worry about this date, it'll be good _because_ you like each other.”

“You think?”

Scott nods, “Yeah. That's what it was like for me and Allison, at first at least. It didn't matter where we were or what we were doing. If we were doing it together it was just immediately better. Y'know?”

He looks sad for a moment and Stiles reaches out to pat him on the arm, “I'm sorry things didn't work out between you two.”

“Yeah. Me too.” Scott sighs. “Me too.”

Silence descends between them, “I feel-- I know I can be--” Stiles pauses, “I don't want to put him off by being too _much_ , you know?”

Scott rubs sleep from his eye, his hair sticking up at odd angles as he considers this. “You're you,” he says finally, “It won't work if you try being anyone else. So do what you feel is right. If he doesn't like that, if he doesn't like _you_ , then you’re obviously not right for each other.”

Stiles gnaws his lips thoughtfully, “But-”

“Look, dude,” Scott says, placing a hand on his arm, “I don't think you've got anything to worry about. I've seen the way he looks at you. This isn't like Lydia, where you were putting yourself out there and she wasn't interested. He's invested okay?”

Stiles rubs his thumb absently across his palm, feeling the ghost of Derek's touch, remembers the blinding warmth of his smile. “Yeah,” he says, smiling, “Yeah, he is.”

 

-

 

He doesn't see Derek at breakfast, but that happens sometimes. People drift down at different points in the morning, and they don't always stay very long. It means he has the whole morning to obsess over what to wear and how to have his hair. He's never even thought about stuff like this before. Not really. Before, things just seemed to happen, people offered and he accepted or vice versa, it had been casual, easy, no expectations. Now he wants to look his best, wants Derek to know that he made an effort for him. Eventually after a long shower, which includes some quality alone time, he feels a little more mellow.

He makes his way back to his dorm room and picks out his best jeans and the soft red sweater that Scott's mum sent him for Christmas last year. He spends an unconscionable amount of time getting his hair right in the mirror. He wants it to look soft and touchable and that's not something that happens naturally, not to him anyway.

He's meeting Derek directly after lunch so he's going to have to take his coat with him to the Great Hall. As he glances outside the casement window he sees that a crisp white blanket of snow covers everything outside, sparkling brightly in the winter sunshine. It's a pity his best winter coat isn't that thick. California sunshine has not prepared him for the reality of harsh winters in the Scottish Highlands. His dad bought him the best they could afford, but money's tight. Money's always a little tight in the Stilinski household at the best of times. For the most part he tries not to think about it. Sighing he roots around in his trunk and gets his scarf, gloves and hat as well, and jams them in his coat pocket.

So much for all that time spent on his hair.

At lunchtime he's sitting at the Gryffindor table, listening with half an ear as Scott talks about Quidditch tactics. He can't stop looking over at Derek though.

Derek's sitting next to Kira and they seem to be talking, but every now and then Derek will look over at him and catch his eye, a small smile playing on his lips. He looks amazing, Stiles is clearly not the only one who's made the effort. Derek's wearing a periwinkle blue henley, and a navy blue cardigan, his dark hair is artfully ruffled. It's the stubble that's really doing it for Stiles though. For whatever reason, Derek seems to have forgone shaving and _fuck_... if that's the result then maybe Derek just shouldn't shave ever. Stiles can only imagine what it would be like to feel the scratch of that stubble up against his lips, his neck... the inside of his thigh...

...annnnd great, now he's nursing a semi at the lunch table.

“You're not listening!” Scott accuses, cutting into Stiles' reverie.

“Stubble?” Stiles says turning to him. “Shit, I mean... sorry?” He flashes Scott a guilty grin.

“Tell me I was not this bad with Allison!” Scott says folding his arms.

“You were not this bad,” Stiles says truthfully, and then as Scott grins he says, “You were so much worse.”

Scott's jaw drops in outrage, “I-”

“You failed to do your half of that potions project and got us both detention.” He ticks Scott's transgressions off on his fingers, “You lost concentration constantly at Quidditch practice, failed to take in _any_ of the new tactics and it nearly cost us the match against Ravenclaw. You forgot my-”

Scott holds up his hands in defeat, “Okay. Yeah. I was pretty bad.”

“Yeah you were,” Stiles admits, “but as much as I resented it at the time, I think now I kind of get it.”

 

o0o

 

It's freezing outside, which shouldn't be a surprise, but then Derek's always amazed by just how cold it gets this far north in winter. He and Stiles are trudging down the path to Hogsmeade together. Their elbows knock against each other, cheeks red-raw from the cold, eyes bright. The snow covered path to the village has been made treacherous by overuse, snow compressed by so many eager feet anxious to get to Honeydukes, or drop into the the Three Broomsticks for a warming pint of butterbeer. Derek's stepping carefully, trying not to slip, as he listens to Stiles who has kept up a constant stream of chatter since they left.

“Do you support a Quidditch team?” Stiles asks.

“I- um...” Derek manages.

“I support Puddlemere United myself, I kind of need to find out about Quidditch teams in the US, because obviously, coming from a muggle family, I didn't really know anything about the sport at all until I got into Hogwarts. Scott likes Puddlemere, and he was the one who first got me into Quidditch, before that I was into baseball more. Which is, like, a muggle sport. It has a bat and one ball, but no brooms. Basically, there are two teams, each with nine players, each team takes turns batting and fielding-” Stiles launches into a detailed explanation of the finer points of baseball. As they crest the hill ahead of them Hogsmeade becomes visible, nestled at the foot of the hill. Next to him, Stiles is still talking. It's almost like he's afraid to be quiet. Derek isn't sure he's managed to get more than two words in edgeways since they met up, not that he minds necessarily. If he was being paranoid though, he'd say that there's a slightly manic edge to all Stiles' chatter.

Maybe Stiles doesn't like silences. Maybe he just thinks Derek is really dull and he's trying to make up for that by filling any awkward pauses. He swallows at that thought, and remembers Matt and the disaster at the Yule Ball. For one moment he can't quite breathe.

Stiles gestures wildly, hitting him on the arm as he demonstrates some kind of... Baseball move? Is that what he called it? Derek blinks and inhales shakily. Stiles isn't Matt, he reminds himself, and he isn't malicious like Uncle Peter. Stiles _wants_ to be here because he likes Derek. 

Stiles glances across at him and pauses mid-explanation. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, “I know I'm talking a lot. You probably don't give a shit about baseball--” He jams his hands in his pockets and looks away.

For one moment there's no noise except the steady crunch of their boots trudging over the snow.

Derek glances across at Stiles from beneath his lashes, there's color creeping up his neck and his cheeks are flushed, maybe it's just the cold, but Derek doesn't think so. He looks nervous, which doesn't make sense, why would Stiles be nervous?

He clears his throat. “I-I don't mind,” he begins, “I mean I don't know much about baseball. I took Muggle Studies for my O.W.L.S, but they mainly focused on British muggle sports, like football or rugby...”

“Yeah! No! Of course! I mean...” Stiles forces a sharp little laugh out, his breath comes out in a little puff of cloud. He shivers, looking away and folds his arms. Stiles' coat doesn't look that thick now Derek thinks about it. It's clearly a winter coat, but cheap, much thinner than it needs to be for this weather and his lips are tinged purple, quivering with the cold. Without thinking Derek pulls out his wand and performs a complicated movement; then as warm air begins to gust from the tip of his wand he points it in Stiles direction.

Stiles mouth drops open. “Which spell is that?” he squeaks.

“H-Hot air charm,” Derek says sheepishly, “but I modified it a little so it's more of a warm air charm now. Th-the original charm was a bit too h-hot to handle.”

“Huh,” Stiles says. He fixes Derek with a look he can't quite parse, “that's- uh- cool.” As he leans into the stream of warm air, a beatific smile spreading over his face. “Well, the opposite of cool really, but you know what I mean, it's amazing!” He sighs and then continues, “Nothing about growing up in California prepared me for this weather. I mean, I've _kind_ of acclimatized over the years, but it's just _so_ cold here in the winter.” He gestures round to the thick snow, “If I pay you, will you follow me around and do that all day?”

“No, keep your money,” Derek says, raising an eyebrow, “but I'll teach you the spell if you want.”

“I said I'd pay you back, I didn't say anything about money.” Stiles waggles his eyebrows suggestively and nudges their shoulders together.

Derek can feel the tips of his ears burning, his thoughts scatter as half a dozen images flit across his mind. Nearly all of them involve Stiles' mouth on him, their hands touching, their bodies pressing up against each other- “I...I... um,” he stammers.

Stiles looks abashed, “Sorry, I do that sometimes, with the jokes. I don't mean to make you feel uncomfortable or anything. I just-- I talk when I'm nervous and I _am_ nervous, because I like you and I want this to be good, but I don't want you to feel pressured, pressured to _do_ anything I mean, because I'm trying to take things slowly. Buuuut I also don't want you to feel like I _don't_ want to, to do stuff I mean, because I think you're so hot and I would do _all_ the things with you Derek, _all_ of them, but I want you to know that I'll move at your pace. I mean we don't have to do anything ever. Not if you don't want to. The other day when we held hands? I've obsessed over that moment, like, solidly for two days, but even if you never wanted to do that with me again? I would still want to be here with you now. So if I say stupid jokes that make you uncomfortable just punch me in the arm or something, because sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain. That's a thing. A legitimate thing that I do, but I don't want it to spoil things between us, because I really like you, dude. Like a whole lot.” He runs a hand through his hair nervously and then mutters to himself, “Oh _God_ , stop talking! This is so much worse then anything you ever said to Lyd...” He glances back at Derek words dying in his throat. There's an awkward pause. Stiles winces, “Am I freaking you out yet? Coming on too strong? Because I've been reliably informed that I can do that with people I, y'know, have... feelings... for. Also I have no filter, like, at all. You probably realized that though. Fuck!”

Derek takes a moment to process the stream of consciousness Stiles has unleashed upon him; as he gathers his thoughts he can feel Stiles fidgeting anxiously next to him.

“I-I d-don't feel pressured. I-I like your jokes. I'm here b-because I want to be, because I like you and I want to,” he blushes furiously, “ _d-do_ things with you, e-eventually.”

Stiles smiles, soft and pleased, “Yeah?”

“Y-yeah,” Derek nods, “b-but don't call me dude.”

“I can't call you 'genius', I can't call you 'dude' what can I call you?” Stiles nudges him with his elbow.

“Derek.” 

“What if I want an adorable pet name for you? Like Der-bear, or Derry-kins or Der-Der.”

Obviously Derek can't see his own face, but he must look horrified, because a bright burst of laughter explodes from Stiles.

“No? What about sweetie-pie?” Stiles teases, “or love-muffin?”

“Okay,” Derek says, completely deadpan. “I'll allow love-muffin.”

Stiles stops dead in the snow, a look of complete shock in his face. “ _Really?_ ”

The look Derek shoots him his painfully dry, “N-No. Of course not. Derek. Call me Derek, or Der if you must.”

“No, I'm afraid I have to take your first answer, you said 'love-muffin' was a go.” His eyes are amber in the winter sunshine, his smile bright and warm. Derek's heart soars in his chest.

“I-I am c-currently regretting all of my life choices,” Derek lies.

Stiles grins, “Aw, sorry, angel-face.”

“Stiles.”

“Okay! Okay! I'll stop now,” he says, linking his arm through Derek's. “I won't call you angel-face again. Ever...” there's a long pause, “...cuddle-bunny.”

Derek elbows him in the ribs and Stiles staggers, snorting with amusement, feet skidding dangerously on the snow, almost tugging Derek over with him. They stumble, flailing wildly for a bit trying to find their footing. They cling to each other flushed and laughing, before finally tumbling head first into a snowbank.

Derek rolls onto his back, panting and breathless with laughter, looking up at the clear blue sky. Next to him Stiles let's out a noise that's part giggle part groan. “I think I've bruised my ass,” he moans, “and there's snow in places that I don't want snow, Derrrrreeek.”

Derek levers himself up onto one elbow and peers over at him, adjusting his glasses. Stiles is bright eyed, skin flushed pink with the cold and Derek wants to reach over and brush the clumps of snow off him. He wants to lean down and brush a kiss against Stiles' cheek, the tip of his nose, the perfect bow of his lips. He's drifting toward him without even realizing it, unable to pull back. Stiles draws his attention, he always has. The pull of him as irresistible as gravity.  
  
He can't take his eyes of Stiles' lips and he's nervous and a little scared, because he's never actually done this before.  
  
He's never kissed anyone.  
  
He's never had anyone he wanted to do _this_ with, but this is Stiles, smart, gorgeous, funny and everything Derek's ever dreamed of. Derek might not be a Gryffindor but he knows he can be brave when it counts.

He sees the moment when Stiles realizes his intent, how he bites his bottom lip and arches up a little ready to meet Derek’s touch. His eyelids flutter shut.

There's a loud, obnoxious wolf whistle from somewhere behind them. Derek springs back, and Stiles flops back down again, huffing out a sigh.

“Nice, bro! Getting some action in the snow!” _Fucking, Laura._

Derek sighs, seriously considering just lying back in the snow and burying himself until she goes away. If only that would work. Stiles struggles to a sit up next to him. He leans into Derek a little, and he's shivering again.

“W-what are you doing here?” Derek scowls, fumbling in his pocket for his wand.

Laura's standing on the path, grinning like a maniac, Kira's standing next to her looking apologetic. Derek flashes her a beleaguered smile.

“We're going to Hogsmeade, dumbass,” Laura says jovially, stomping over to him.

“Well don't let us stop you,” Derek grumbles as he struggles to his feet, and sticks out a hand for Stiles, pulling him up too. He casts the warming charm over them both and steam begins to rise quickly from their clothes as they dry.

“But where would the fun be in that?” Laura says, eyes sparkling.

Kira reaches out a hand and places it on her arm. “Maybe we should jus-” she manages.

“So, Stiles,” Laura continues, interrupting Kira, “I see you finally asked my brother out!” She punches him on the arm and Stiles winces.

“Actually, he asked me,” Stiles says, rubbing his arm gingerly. “Damn! Have you considered becoming a beater?”

Laura's not paying attention though, she turns back to Derek, “Really?” Her eyes are soft, the obnoxious veneer she's adopted slips a little, “That's- that's great. I'm pleased, bro.” The grin that's spreading across her face is warm and affectionate. He wants to smile back, but he doesn't want to encourage her. She doesn't need encouragement.

Instead he folds his arms and glares. “Great,” he snarks, “we're all pleased you're pleased.”

Kira slips her arm firmly through Laura's. “It was great to see you guys!” she says, as she drags Laura away, “Have a good date!”

“Yeah! Have a good date!” Laura calls, “Hey, Stilinski! If you're looking for tips he likes flowers and he reads poetry, he's also got a sweet tooth and he-” Whatever else she's about to say is muffled by Kira, who slaps a hand over her mouth and frog-marches her away.

“I hate you, Laura!” Derek calls after her, blushing furiously.

Stiles looks after their retreating forms, incredulous and impressed. “How are you related?” he asks, “Let alone twins?”

“I used to think there was some kind of mix up at the hospital,” Derek says morosely. “I thought maybe I'd been sent to live with the wrong family. She means well though, even though she has all the subtlety of a knife in your gut.”

Stiles nods, “I get that. I do.”

They turn as one, continuing down the road in the direction of Hogsmeade. Now that Laura and Kira have disappeared off in front, Derek can't help thinking about their almost kiss. How close they'd been to actually taking that step. He glances across at Stiles who grins.

“So-” Stiles says, “You like poetry huh?”

Derek groans, _fucking Laura_. “I-uh-”

“Because I can do poetry!” Stiles says quickly, “I will write some right now, uh- let me see.” His nose wrinkles thoughtfully.

“You really don't have-” Derek begins.

“His eyes are as green as a fresh pickled toad, His hair is as dark as a blackboard, I wish he was mine, he's really divine, He's the sexiest guy in the whole school?” Stiles winces, “Shit! That's no good, what rhymes with board?”

“A p-pickled toad? Really?” Derek raises an eyebrow.

Stiles looks sheepish, “Okay – pickled toads are not romantic subject matter. Fuck. Okay, well what about, 'Violets are red, Roses are blue-”

“V-Violets are blue, Stiles,” Derek interrupts wryly.

“Shit. Motherfucking god dammit!” Stiles swears. “Poetry is hard!” He looks thoroughly frustrated. “I want to woo you properly, dude. What about--? No, that's no good. Fuck.”

Derek feels a rush of affection surge and bloom in his chest, as Stiles tries to work out a decent rhyming scheme. Without thinking he reaches for Stiles hand and links their fingers together tightly.

Stiles stutters to a stop mid sentence and looks down at where their hands are joined, then he looks back across at Derek, temporarily speechless.

“Y-you d-don't have to write me a p-poem, Stiles,” Derek says. He screws his courage to the sticking place and leans across, brushing a kiss against Stiles cheek, “C-consider me wooed.”

Stiles bites his lip and grins soft and fond. He grasps Derek's hand more tightly as they make their way into Hogsmeade.

 

o0o

 


	15. Chapter 15

They decide to head straight for the Three Broomsticks when they finally reach Hogsmeade. They're both freezing cold and desperate for a drink. As they open the door to the inn a gust of warm air rushes over them and Stiles sighs in relief.

“We are never going outside again,” Stiles says, sagging against Derek. “At least not until the snow's melted.”

Derek just grins and tugs him through the entrance letting the door bang shut behind them. The Three Broomsticks is noisy and vibrant. A roaring fire heats the room and a lot of the seats are full, but they manage to find a couple of empty chairs at a small wooden table, right at the back, near a window.

“I'll get the drinks,” Stiles says, “Butterbeer for you?”

“P-please” Derek nods sinking down gratefully into a chair and removing his hat and gloves.

He's always liked the Three Broomsticks, it's busy, but in a way that invites you to be part of the bustle rather than in that way that makes you feel unwelcome or unwanted. Laura and Kira have already beaten them here, they're sitting at a table with a few other students. Kira sees him glance at her and waves, smiling brightly. Derek grins and raises his hand in acknowledgement. He glances out the window at the frozen streets of Hogsmeade. Witches and wizards rush from shop to shop with their winter cloaks and coats pulled tight around themselves. Derek has always thought Hogsmeade seemed more like a painting rather than a real place. That's especially true in winter though, with thick snow on the rooftops and the orange glow of lamplight that streams out of leaded glass windows. It's warm and comforting and Derek just wants to bask in how content he feels right now.

Stiles arrives back with the drinks, places the over-full glasses on the table, cursing under his breath as butterbeer slops everywhere. He collapses in the other chair, edging it closer to Derek so they're sitting next to each other. His legs sprawl out in front of him, knocking into Derek's. Stiles stretches languorously, his sweater riding up to reveal the taut skin of his stomach and a dark patch of hair that disappears below the waistband of his jeans. It's almost too much and Derek glances up to see Stiles looking at him, he knows his ears are turning red. He isn't sure when he's going to stop blushing around Stiles, but obviously today is not _that_ day. The thing is, he doesn't have to feel embarrassed about being caught looking now, he's _allowed._ Stiles smirks and then winks at him and Derek grins down at his drink and fiddles idly with the beer mat. He can feel Stiles' leg pressed against his own, the heat of it a comforting warmth and he knows he's never been this damn happy before.

“I can't believe it's going to be Christmas Day in less than a week!” Stiles says exhaling noisily.

“A-Are you going home over Christmas?” Derek asks. It's been playing on his mind, the fact that they've only just managed to start this- whatever it is- and they're about to be separated for nearly three weeks. He glances up and doesn't miss the grimace that passes over Stiles' face.

“Yeah. Gonna go back to California and spend some time with my dad,” Stiles says with brittle enthusiasm.

Derek raises an eyebrow, because something is clearly _off_ about the way Stiles says that. Like he doesn't want to go back at all.

“It must be hard,” he says eventually, “at this time of year, for you guys.” The _because of your mother's death,_ goes unsaid.

Stiles shrugs, “Yeah, I mean, it is difficult- I guess for that reason and just-” he sighs, “It'll be fine. It must be nice for you to get back home and see the family though?”

He's deflecting and Derek doesn't call him on it. Stiles clearly isn't in the mood to talk about it. Instead he suppresses a shudder at the thought of his own imminent trip home. “I-I g-guess, it depends wh-who's there though.”

Stiles doesn't say anything, just leaves space for Derek to continue if he wants to.

“P-Peter,” Derek admits, “my mother's b-brother. We don't- get on- and h-he tends to be round at this t-time of y-year.” The beer mat is now officially just scraps of paper beneath his fingers.

“Why don't you get on?” Stiles asks, shifting forward in his seat a little. “I mean, if you want to talk about that.”

Derek gnaws at his lip anxiously, “H-he's just not- I mean, we don't- I- uh,”

_...he's picked on me ever since I can remember, pulling at every thread of insecurity, trying to get me to unravel in front of him._

_He pretends to be nice, makes all the right noises in front of my family and then when we're alone he makes fun of my stutter, my writing, the fact that I'm a Hufflepuff and anything else he can think of._

_He's manipulative and unfeeling. I don't think he hates me, he doesn't care enough about_ anyone _to muster hatred. He just likes to pick at people, to see what their buttons are, to see how they work and then pull them apart just because he can._

_He's like a child pulling the wings off a fly just because they're bored. It's that same kind of casual cruelty. He likes to have weak things fluttering around him, confused and desperate. He's curious to see how they cope under the conditions he's set for them... and that's me when he's there. Weak and spineless and I hate going home, because I never know if he'll be there. It's Christmas though, so at some point he's bound to show up and it's going to be the worst. Nobody really understands what he's like except Laura, because he's so damn charming when he wants to be..._

He doesn't say any of that though. He can't make the words come out.

“...He's just not a great guy.” Derek says lamely. He takes a long swig of butterbeer. He doesn't want to think about it. It's better when he compartmentalizes, easier when he doesn't let himself think about Peter at all. He's well practiced at pushing those memories down, sublimating the feelings they produce into hard work and a desire to prove himself. Soon he'll be going home though, and he's managed to come so far, but just the thought of his uncle makes him feel like a little kid again. He wonders sometimes if everyone has someone like that in their lives. Someone who makes them feel inadequate or insecure. or whether it's just him.

Stiles reaches over and links there fingers together, rubbing his thumb idly across the back of Derek's knuckles, “He sounds like a dick.”

Derek shrugs. “Y-you don't know anything a-about him,” he points out, “Maybe I'm the dick.”

Stiles shakes his head, “I don't know him, but I know _you._ You think about things, you analyse stuff and you _care_. You're loyal and fair minded. You're in Hufflepuff for Merlin's sake.” Derek rolls his eyes at that, but Stiles continues firmly, “If you don't think he's a good guy then I believe you.”

Derek feels affection blossom in his chest and, strangely enough, guilt, “I-I feel bad now. Y-you should be making your o-own mind up about him, not having your v-view colored b-by my opinion.”

“Depends how much weight I give to someone's opinion. You've never given me any reason not to trust your judgement, Derek.”

Derek sighs, he feels petulant but he doesn't know why. “B-but I haven't even t-told you w-why I don't like him.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Do you want me to like him?” he asks bluntly.

Derek's shoulders sag. “I- No, but I want you not to like him f-for the right reasons, and me telling you _I_ don't like him isn't enough of one.”

“Fine!” Stiles says throwing his hands up in defeat. “I'll reserve judgement on him. Assuming I ever get to meet him. Is that what you want?”

Derek nods, hunching over. He feels strangely deflated. Like he's ruining their date somehow and he doesn't know how to fix it. He can feel the weight of Stiles gaze as it rests on him though. He adjusts his glasses and takes a long sip of butterbeer, uncertain of how to continue. It was all going so well, but now it just feels stilted and awkward.

“I get it you know, I don't want to go home either,” Stiles admits finally and the way his voice cracks as he says it makes Derek look up.

Stiles is staring at the table. His face is flushed and his eyes are a little glassy. He takes a long shuddering breath, and for one moment Derek wonders if he's about to cry.

“W-why not?”

There's a long pause. “My dad's a muggle, my mom was one too. She died six months before I came to Hogwarts. It's-” Stiles takes a breath, holds it, cheeks all puffed out, and then releases it slowly. “Things are weird between me and my dad. I love him, more than anything and I _know_ he loves me. It's just this- this massive tragedy occurred and then suddenly I'm a wizard and I'm living a whole continent away and only coming back for holidays. I feel- guilty.” His voices cracks again, “He needed me and I abandoned him, Derek, and it's not something I could help, but I did. He lost his wife and his son in the space of six months. I go home now and it's like a different world. He doesn't know anything about magic, he doesn't understand how the wizarding world works. If anything I think he blames it for stealing his son away from him.”

For one moment Derek isn't sure how to respond, he wants to say something comforting like, _I'm sure that's not true,_ or _Your dad loves you, he could never blame you for anything._ That all sounds trite though and anyway, it might be true. He doesn't know Stiles' dad at all.

“I'm sorry,” he says. Stiles swipes furiously at his eyes and swallows hard.

“He keeps asking me what I'm going to do once I graduate,” Stiles says eventually, “He wants to know what I'm going to do when I leave school. What job I'll do... he keeps assuming I'll be going back to California.”

“W-what did you tell him?”

Stiles laughs and it's an empty, hollow sound, “I told him I don't know. Partly because i've not decided yet and partly because any wizard job I name is going to sound so _bizarre_ to him. What's he going to say if I tell him I want to be a professional Quidditch player or an Auror or a... oh God, I don't know, a Magizoologist. None of those things will sound real to him.”

Derek takes a sip of butterbeer. “In f-fairness,” he begins, “I don't think you've taken the right N.E.W.T.s for those last two- so you don't have to w-worry about describing them to him.”

Stiles lets out a bark of surprised laughter, “Dick!” he says, with a small grin, “What do you suggest I do, tell him I want to play Quidditch for the rest of my life?”

“If that's what you want to do then yes.” Derek says immediately, pushing his glasses up his nose, “There are muggle sports like ballbase or whatever you called it.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Baseball,” he corrects.

“B-Baseball then. E-even if he d-doesn't know what Quidditch is, he understands the concept of a p-professional sportsplayer, and you're good, you could totally do that.”

“I guess.” Stiles says, “I just- I've never known how to talk to him about magic stuff.”

“H-He knows y-you're the Captain of the Gryffindor t-team though,” Derek presses.

Stiles shakes his head, “I-” he begins and then trails off, “When I go home I don't talk about magic stuff with him.”

Derek's head reels a little at that, “I- but- that's part of who you are.” 

“It's the part of who I am that took me away from my dad,” Stiles says, “The least I can do is let him have a 'normal' son for a bit when I am at home.”

Derek's mouth works soundlessly for a moment. There's a lot he could say in response to that, but it doesn't feel like it's his place.

Stiles forces a smile, glances round the room and then back down at his hands, anywhere but at Derek, “Let's lighten the mood a bit Der-bear. My dating experience is limited, but I'm pretty sure we're supposed to be getting to know each other's favorite books or some shit like that, not listening to my-” he makes a sweeping gesture, “family issues.”

“I-l like listening to you.” Derek says softly, “A-And b-besides I already know y-you like The H-Hobbit.”

“The Hobbit.” Stiles repeats softly. “You remembered I like The Hobbit.” He's staring, like Derek remembering that one little fact is some incredible thing. Derek ducks his head and looks away, blushing. Is it stupid that he remembers this stuff? Is it stupid that he's always been interested in Stiles? Even before they started talking, he was so aware of him, so fascinated. And that hasn't changed now he knows him, if anything it's just heightened it. There have been so many lingering conversations in the library over long winter evenings. So many little scraps of information thoughtlessly shared. He knows more than Stiles favorite childhood book. He knows the way Stiles eyes dance when he's excited, the way the corner of his mouth twists up when he's about to tell a joke. The way fiddles with the cuff of his sweater when he's nervous. In some ways, this doesn't feel the way Derek imagines a first date should at all.

When he finally looks up, Stiles is staring at him, his eyes look a little damp and his cheeks are blotchy. There's something about his expression, it's raw, emotion bleeding everywhere. Stiles leans in a little, reaches out a hand tentatively and brushes his thumb along the stubbled sweep of Derek's jaw, following the line of it until his long fingers slip under his ear and finally tangle in the short dark hair at the nape of Derek's neck.

Derek's breath hitches, anxiety and anticipation swirl in his stomach. Stiles leans in further, his eyes never leaving Derek's. He's so close that as he exhales a warm puff of butterbeer scented air skates over Derek's skin making him shiver. “Can I kiss you?” he asks. Derek can't speak, can't respond. For one moment all his scattered senses can focus on are the warm calloused pads of Stiles' fingers as they rub idly against the nape of his neck, the rabbit-quick beat of his own heart and the way Stiles' adam's apple bobs as he swallows nervously.

Derek nods, not trusting himself to speak.

Stiles smiles, a soft half smile, closes his eyes and then closes the distance between them.

At first Derek holds his breath, tense and uncertain, even though he wants this. He's wanted this for so long it feels like the aching need for it is ingrained on some fundamental part of him. But as Stiles drops a warm, dry kiss on Derek's mouth and lets it linger, Derek feels that tension flowing out of him. This is easy. This is natural. This feels right. He parts his lips slightly, and kisses back, soft and tentative at first but then, as their mouths slide against each other, starting to get more confident. As he responds he can feel Stiles start to smile into the kiss which makes things awkward and in the end Stiles is the one to pull back, ending things.

“W-Was that not- g-good?” Derek says, his nerves finally getting the better of him.

“No, you dork.” Stiles says leaning in and dropping a kiss on his jaw, then another on his cheek and a third on the corner of his mouth, “It was amazing. I'm smiling because I'm happy. _You_ make me happy.”

“Oh,” Derek says softly, heart stuttering his chest, and then he smiles, and says as he leans in for another kiss, “Y-you make me happy too.”

  
  
o0o

  
  



	16. Chapter 16

Stiles and Derek sit in the Three Broomsticks for a little while longer, their legs pressed up against each other, hands clasped together tightly and resting on the table in front of them. Stiles rubs his thumb over the back of Derek's knuckles, unable to deny himself the simple pleasure of touch _._ Nearby, a roaring fire burns nearby in an ornate fireplace and pale sunshine streams in through the leaded glass next to them. The place thrums with conversation and laughter, and the warm scent of butterbeer fills the air. Stiles feels light, contented even, in a way he hasn't for years, maybe not even since his mom passed away. Talking with Derek about his relationship with his dad was cathartic, like just saying his fears out loud has lifted the burden of them a little.

For so long he'd wanted to be with someone who saw him, who _got_ him. He thought he'd see someone across a crowded room and just know that they were the one, that they understood him. He'd imagined that _that_ was what relationships were like, that _that_ was what love was. That was what he'd wanted to have with Lydia. Something bold and surprising and sure, like lightning out of a clear blue sky.

Perhaps the reality is different he reflects, chancing a look at Derek. Perhaps sometimes this is what falling in love with someone is like. It's not a loud fanfare that announces itself and commands your attention. Instead it's a slow surrender, a hundred tiny conversations and gestures slowly coming together to form a bigger picture. It isn't about grand gestures or sudden realizations, it's about intimacy and patience and being able to trust the most vulnerable parts of yourself to someone, knowing that they'll take care of them.

Derek catches him looking and smiles softly, warmth fizzles in Stiles' stomach spreading outward through him, making him drowsy with contentment. “You have anywhere else you want to go while we're here?” he asks.

Derek shrugs. “M-Might need to d-do a little bit of Christmas shopping,” he admits.

“Okay, we can do that."

“N-Not yet though,” Derek says bumping his shoulder against Stiles', “I'm happy here at the moment.”

Stiles couldn't stop the grin that spreads over his face if he tried.

o0o

 

They spend a little while drifting aimlessly round the shops and Derek makes a couple of small purchases, then they finally wander back up through Hogsmeade, past the train station and up the long winding path to the castle. Derek can't stop glancing across at Stiles, it all feels so unreal. They've gone on a date. He's had his first kiss, and he got to have it with _Stiles._ In his wildest dreams he never thought Stiles would even notice him, let alone like him back.

It doesn't matter that it's bitterly cold or that it’s started snowing _again._ It doesn’t matter that he's going to have to go back home soon and will almost certainly have to see Peter. He can't find the energy to care about any of it right now, because he gets to have this moment with Stiles.

As they enter the Hogwarts grounds the castle looms ahead of them. In front of them other students trudge up to the main entrance in twos and threes chatting and laughing. They’re very nearly back, this date is nearly over, and Derek realizes with a pang that he isn't ready for it to end yet. Maybe Stiles feels the same way, because all of a sudden he grabs Derek's hand and tugs him off the path and into a little copse of trees with bare branches covered in thick snow. “Shh,” Stiles hisses.

Derek looks about them in confusion, “What's going on?”

Is some kind of seduction technique? Did Stiles drag him in here to make out? Stiles isn’t looking at him though, he pokes his head out from behind a tree looking down the path towards where a small cluster of students stand chatting and then ducks back in again quickly.

“Scott is talking to Kira and Laura!” he whispers.

“So?” For one moment Derek wonders if Stiles is ashamed to be seen with him, but that doesn't make any sense. They've _already_ been seen together by all these people.

Stiles looks at him, amused, “Your eyebrows are judging me so harshly right now.”

“I don't understand what the big deal is,” Derek says, rolling his eyes as suspicion slips away from him. “So they're talking? Why are we hiding behind a tree?”

Stiles crouches down and picks up a handful of snow, packing into a tight ball, “Because this time last year I was ambushed by Scott. We had the snowball fight to end all snowball fights, and he _won_. This year you're gonna help me get even.”

“Um- Uh- I really- I'm not-”

“Are you saying you're not gonna jump at the chance to get the drop on Laura?”

Derek allows himself to picture that for a moment, because it's a tempting, _so_ tempting. “What about Kira?” he says reluctantly.

Stiles looks at him seriously, “A casualty of war. The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few.” He pats Derek on the arm.

“That doesn’t make any sense, what are you talking about?”

“It's a StarTrek - you know what? Never mind. Trust me.”

“Trust you? Or collude with you against my best friend and my sister.”

He watches while Stiles continues to create more and more snowballs, “Derek, I wouldn't ask you to do this if it wasn't important.”

“Ugh- Fine!” he snorts.

“Great!” Get making as many snowballs as you can. There's more of them, so we're going to need the element of surprise.”

Reluctantly, Derek leans down and begins to make snowballs. He wants to point out how badly this is going to go, buuuut he also kinda wants to hit Laura with a snowball. While he’s busying himself, Stiles sneaks a glance round the tree again, “Excellent. Revenge is a dish best served cold!” There’s a maniacal gleam in his eye.

“What are you getting me into?” Derek asks, his fingers numb.

“Nothing! Nothing we can't handle anyway. How many snowballs have we got?”

“I dunno, maybe twenty or so?”

“Okay. Grab some, we're going to bombard them and then run for the castle, before they have a chance to retaliate.”

Derek shakes his head, “This is such a bad idea.”

“It's an awesome idea,” Stiles says dismissively.

“But you don't know Ki-”

“It'll be fine,” Stiles says, “I play Quidditch remember? I'm a crack shot.”

“When this all goes horribly wrong you will _owe_ me,” Derek grouses.

Stiles isn't listening though, he's already picked up a couple of snowballs and is weighing one carefully in his hand.

“Ready, Der?” he mutters, “These suckers are going _down_.”

He lets fly with the first snowball, then a second. The first hits Scott square in the back, the next on his arm. Scott yelps and flails comically, whirling round to see who his attacker is. Stiles has already ducked back behind the tree.

Scott glares round jerkily. “I know it's you, Stiles!” he calls.

Stiles grabs some more, his third snowball hits Scott on the shoulder and his fourth hits Laura straight in the face, leaving her gasping and furious. “Come on, Derek!” he hisses, “don't just stand there!” Derek sighs loudly but stoops to pick up a couple and peers round the tree carefully.

“I'm going to-” Laura's saying. Derek launches two snowballs in quick succession one hits Laura the other Kira. He and Stiles both duck to pick up more from their stash.

“You're a really good shot!” Stiles says gleefully.

“That second one was supposed to hit Scott,” Derek admits, “but thanks!”

They re-arm and dart back round to resume their attack. Except now there's nobody there.

“Where is everyone?!” Stiles says looking about in confusion, “I swear to God they were ri-”

A snowball hits him in the side of the face, another on his arm. Derek takes one to the back.

Derek glances about to see Scott approaching from his left, and Laura from his right, they've circled round and executed a classic pincer maneuver. “Stiles!” he says, grabbing the arm of his coat.

“I see them! Quick! No mercy!” Stiles dives for their pile of snowballs and launches as many as he can, “You go for Laura! I'll get Scott!”

“But what about Ki-?” Derek starts to say, but there's no time to finish that sentence. Snowballs are flying thick and fast from all directions. He falls to his knees and start to lob as many snowballs as he can at Laura. She puts her hands up to defend herself before ducking behind a holly bush.

“You are going to rue the day you did this, baby bro!” she calls. Derek waits for her to duck her head out to look around and aims one that hits her straight in the shoulder.

“T-Two minutes, Laura! Two goddamn minutes!” he calls throwing the next snowball with particular venom.

Stiles snickers, he's got Scott pinned behind a stubby looking conifer.

“We're totally awesome!” he crows, “We totally did it! Argghhh”

Snow. So much snow, falling from every branch above them, straight on top of their heads. They both tense and then as one look straight up. Kira's balanced cat like on a large branch. The branches directly above them that had been covered in thick snow are now completely empty. With a flick of her wand she sends more snow down on top of them.

“Forget about me did you?” she says grinning widely.

“Th-th-that is ch-ch-cheating!” Stiles shivers, shaking the snow off and pointing an accusing finger. “N-No magic!”

“I reject your arbitrary rules, Stilinski!” Kira calls gleefully, dumping another branch full of snow on them with a flick of her wand, “Chaos!” Another flick, “Anarchy!” Another, “Misrule!”

Derek rolls his eyes and grabs Stiles hand, tugging back through the copse and away as fast as he can. Behind them Laura’s lobbing snowball after snowball at them. Scott’s gaping up at Kira with a massive grin on his face.

“U-Unbelievable!” Stiles pants out, glancing back. “We had them! We had them right _there._ ”

“You underestimated Kira,” Derek says, pulling them out of sight behind a shrub, “You're not the first.”

“But I didn't even hear her climb that tree!” Stiles says dolefully.

 

-

 

In the end it was difficult to say who'd won. Laura and Scott made a pretty solid team. Stiles and Derek regrouped and come back even stronger. Kira was the wild card though, flitting between teams and generally causing complete havoc and confusion.

“You're supposed to be on _our_ side!” Laura wailed at one point as Kira threw a snowball that hit her square on the jaw, “You're supposed to be _loyal._ How are you even in Hufflepuff?”

“I am a loyal agent of _chaos!_ ” Kira called with a maniacal laugh, lobbing another snowball at Laura and then sending one flying straight at Stiles' back.

Laura groaned, and Kira darted away between the trees, cackling loudly. After that it had degenerated into a free-for-all.

Now, all five of them tumble through the castle entrance together flushed and shivering, but happy.

“That was fun!” Laura says, eyes still bright from the cold, “I'm gonna go back to the Ravenclaw Tower now though. I need to find the seat nearest to the fire and warm up.” She gives Kira and Derek a huge bear hug each and then shakes Scott firmly by the hand. “You're one helluva fighter, McCall,” she says, eyes twinkling, “It was an honor serving with you.”

“You too, Hale,” Scott replies, grinning.

“I like you, Stilinski,” she calls to Stiles as she turns to leave. “With you around my brother is in danger of having _actual_ fun.”

“Fuck you, Laura!” Derek calls after her. She flips him off as she leaves.

Stiles slips his hand through Derek's. “I can be fun,” Derek grumbles. Stiles drops a placating kiss on his jaw and Derek stills, caught by the casual affection of the gesture.

“Hey!” Scott says a little shyly, “Kira, can I walk you back to the Hufflepuff common room?”

“Of course!” she says, smiling broadly. “See you guys later!”

“Hmm...” Stiles muses, watching Scott and Kira leave together.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He peels his coat off, it's damp and he's shivering.

“Oh- erm- j-just a second,” Derek tugs them into a little alcove by a suit of armor. He pulls out his wand and performs the hot air charm. A gust of warm air bursts from the tip of his wand, which he directs at Stiles.

“Oh. My. God. I am going to keep you forever,” Stiles moans leaning into it and closing his eyes.

Derek can feel his ears burning and his heart skips a beat. “I-um- I might l-let y-you."

Stiles squints at him, a slow smile spreads across his face, “Yeah?”

Derek nods feeling the blush creep across his cheekbones. “Yeah,” he says, he looks down and away, his glasses slip down his nose a little. “I m-mean... if you w-wanted to.”

Stiles reaches out for Derek's free hand and tangles their fingers together, “Good, because I think I might.”

Derek's eyes flicker up to meet Stiles' and he swallows nervously. Stiles' fingers reach out hesitantly and ever so gently, he adjusts Derek's glasses for him. Derek’s breath catches, heart beating triple time now. He wants to lean across, wants to close the distance between them. He wants to feel the press of Stiles’ body up against his own. Anticipation coils sweetly in his stomach. Stiles bites his lip and Derek can't help but track the motion with his eyes.

“Th-this has b-been...” Derek mumbles.

Stiles drifts closer, “Yeah?” His breath is warm against Derek's lips.

“Really, really... yeah,” Derek breathes. On some level he’s aware he's stopped making sense now. Stiles smiles, soft, and then kisses him sweetly. Derek's lips part, eager and responsive. He curls his hands in the fabric of Stiles' sweater and pulls them together, close and warm and real. There’s a bitten of moan, Derek’s not sure which of them makes it, and then Stiles presses in closer. One hand cups the back of Derek's head, his fingers running through the short hair at the nape of his neck; the other wraps round his waist. He swipes his tongue across Derek's lips and it's simultaneously the most nervous and the most turned on Derek's ever been, and they’re technically still in the entrance hall.

_They’re still in the entrance hall._

As that thought finally seeps into Derek's conscious mind he pulls away reluctantly. He’s achingly hard, dick straining against his jeans. Stiles blinks at Derek, dazed, pupils blown, his lips lush and pink, his sweater askew. Derek exhales shakily, because _he_ did that, and he can’t quite believe it.

“That was- uh-” Stiles says.

Derek nods, he takes a tiny step back and looks around. Nobody's really paying them any attention. They're too busy chatting with their own friends and showing each other what they bought from Hogsmeade. He swallows.

“Th-Thanks for coming with me,” he says roughly.

Stiles smiles shakily and scrubs a hand through his hair awkwardly, “Thanks for asking me.”

They stare at each other for a long moment.

“I better...” Stiles says gesturing in the direction of Gryffindor Tower. He's staring at Derek's mouth.

“Yeah,” Derek says.

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

They stand there for another beat. Derek can't move. He can't turn away. He can't stop staring. His erection isn’t going anywhere.

“Oh _fuck_ it,” Stiles breathes and surges forward, kissing him again hard fast and desperate. There's a moment, one moment, where they're clinging to each other. Connected. Perfect. Stiles' tongue is in his mouth and his hands are in Stiles' hair and it's everything and not enough, and all he’s ever wanted.

Then Stiles breaks away again.

He takes a step back.

Then another, till his backs against the wall.

“Okay,” he says, running a shaking hand through tousled hair. “Okay. That was...”

“Okay?” Derek says, voice cracked and hopeful.

Stiles laughs, and it's a high, disbelieving thing. “Uh _yeah,_ ” he runs his fingertips over his lips, “I think _okay_ about covers it.”

Derek smiles, relieved. “ _O_ _kay_.”

 

o0o

 

Derek arrives back in the Hufflepuff common room, dazed and euphoric. As soon as he walks through the door though, Kira grabs him by the hand and drags him off to the boys dormitory.

“I need to talk to you!” she says urgently as she pulls him through the doorway.

“Wh-what about? What’s wrong?” Derek says, taking a seat on his bed.

Kira stands in front of him for a moment, radiating anxiety, “I’m pretty sure Scott _likes_ me. He _like_ likes me.”

“Oh!” Derek says blankly, “Oh, okay. D-Do you like him?”

Kira exhales loudly and starts to pace in agitation, “I don’t- It’s complicated.”

“O-kay.”

“I mean, I think he’s sweet and funny, and we have similar interests. Did you know he wants to be a magizoologist?”

“I think Stiles mentioned that,” Derek allows. “So you aren't attracted to him? Scott I mean.”

She stops pacing, “No, I think he’s very attractive.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

Kira looks at him for a long moment, before sinking down onto the bed next to him. “He asked me to go with him next time there’s a Hogsmeade weekend, like on a _date._ ”

“Well you don’t have to go on a date with him if you don’t want to.”

Kira bites her lip there's a long pause. She closes her eyes and takes a shaky breath, “What if I don’t want to date _anyone_? Ever.” She opens her eyes and looks across at him nervously. He opens his mouth to respond, but she cuts him off, “The thing is I’ve always been happy as I am. I have friends, I have family, I have a whole career plan. I’ve _never_ wanted a relationship. _Ever_. I've never really understood what all the fuss was about. At first I thought, ‘maybe it’s just that I’ve not found the right person’. I thought if I found someone I really liked maybe I would… but I- I don’t think that’s true. I mean, on paper Scott should be perfect for me. I'm attracted to him. We've become good friends, we hang out now in Care of Magical Creatures all the time, but...”

“But…” Derek prompts.

“But I’ve _seen_ how you are about Stiles, how Laura is about which ever guy she’s crushing on this week, hell, I’ve read novels. I’ve never once felt _that_ way. The way everyone else seems to feel, I mean. I’ve felt attracted to people physically, I've made out with people, I've done  _stuff,"_ she blushes, "but all the _romantic_ crap, the wanting to go on dates and the _relationshippy-_ ack, that’s not… I’ve never wanted that and that was _fine._ I figured one day that would happen for me. But then, when he asked me out, for the first time I doubted myself, and now I'm starting to wonder if there's something wrong with me. If I'm broken or… heartless.” Her expression crumples.

“Hey,” Derek puts an arm round her and hugs her tight. “You are _not_ heartless. You have the biggest, kindest heart out of anyone I know.”

Kira sags into him, “Then why don't I feel what you feel? What everyone _else_ seems to feel. Why is that? Scott's a great guy. I feel like if I was going to want to date anyone it  _should_  be him, but I don't. That urge, that everyone I know seems to have. It's just not part of who I am.”

Derek strokes her hair, “F-For what it’s w-worth the m-more I think about this stuff, the more I've realized that everyone's different y'know? When I went to the Yule Ball with Matt the idea of having to touch him or k-kiss him? It f-freaked me out, it made me so anxious. He asked me if I'd make out with him to make Danny jealous and I r-refused. I c-could only... I could only think about doing that stuff with someone I felt a connection to. I realize l-lots of people _aren't_ like me. _Stiles_ isn't - I kn-know that. Laura's not either, but it's not like they're the same as each other. We're all different. I don't think there is a right or a wrong about how you feel when it comes to this stuff. Probably, the only wrong thing is not being honest and respectful with the people you get involved with.”

Kira's quiet for a long moment, “Truthfully, if I thought Scott and I could have something casual and physical, like a friends with benefits type thing," she ducks her head, "then I’d probably agree in a heartbeat. He’s stupidly attractive, but I just-”

“Don’t want to hurt his feelings?”

“Exactly, I mean, if he’s emotionally invested in a way I can’t be, then I’d be constantly worried I'm gonna hurt him!” She takes a deep breath.

Derek squeezes her shoulder, “I think you should talk to Scott, tell him what you’ve told me.”

She flinches.

Derek squints at her suspiciously, “How did you leave things with him anyway?”

“Ahhh,” she shoots him a guilty grin, “I kind of panicked.”

“Kiiirrra,” he says in a warning voice.

“Okay,” she runs a hand through her hair, “so he was walking me to the common room and we’d been chatting and he’s really funny and sweet and we were laughing and then he kind of leaned in and said, that ‘maybe next time there’s a Hogsmeade weekend we could go together, just the two of us.’”

“And…”

“And then I pretended to hear someone calling my name and I ran away…” she slumps forward, head in her hands.

“Kira!”

“I know! I know!” she moans, “You can’t judge me anymore than I’m judging myself.”

“You definitely need to talk to him,” Derek says firmly, “Even if it’s just to turn him down properly.”

“I know,” Kira says, voice muffled behind her hands. She sits up, “I will. I just, I needed to talk to you first. I needed to know that you don’t think I’m broken... or crazy.”

“Look, we both know you've always been crazy," he says deadpan, "but you're definitely not broken. So stop saying it. Stop _thinking_ it.”

Kira half sobs, half snorts with laughter and elbows him in the side.

“Talk to him,” Derek says firmly, “Tell him what you’ve told me. Even if it’s difficult.”

“I will,” Kira says, “It’s just hard y’know?”

“I know,” Derek says softly, “but I’ve got your back, you’re going to be fine.”

 

o0o

 

 


	17. Chapter 17

Scott looks kind of down when Stiles gets back to the Gryffindor common room. He's sitting on a squashy red and gold couch and staring at the fire, nibbling thoughtfully on his thumbnail. A classic Scott tell that means something is bugging him.

Stiles flops down next to him, and nudges him with an elbow.

“You okay, man? You wanna talk?”

“Yeah! No! I'm fine,” Scott replies. He heaves a sigh and starts gnawing on a different fingernail. Stiles decides not to call him on such a blatant lie. Scott will talk when he's ready.

There's a long silence and Stiles shifts in his seat, “Well, I'm probably gonna go up-”

“I asked Kira out,” Scott says, all in a rush.

There it is.

Stiles slumps back down into his seat, “Oh cool, man! That's cool. I didn't really realize you liked her like that. Well... I sort of _suspected,_ when you asked to walk her back this afternoon, but before that-”

Scott drops his hand into his lap and shoots Stiles a wry look, “It's okay. You've been _preoccupied_.”

Stiles flushes guiltily, he has been caught up in his own stuff. As distracted by Derek as Scott ever was by Allison. “Sorry.”

“Hey, don't be sorry,” Scott says slapping him on the arm, “You weren't being a bad friend or anything. Anyway, I like that you're happy, Derek seems like he's good for you.”

“He is. At least, I think he is. I mean, hopefully we're good for each other, y'know? It feels like he really gets me and at first I thought we wouldn't work, on the surface we're such an odd couple, but the more I've gotten to know him, the better things are. I just can't-” he trails off. Scott's smirking and Stiles can't believe how easily he's slipped into talking about Derek, he is legitimately the worst friend ever. "Sorry."

“Nah. We're cool. I'm pleased for you. I kind of owe you for always listening to me about the Allison stuff, anyway.”

“Well, there is that!” Stiles grins, “Fortunately for you I've decided to write that debt off, otherwise you'd be paying me back till the day you died.”

Scott grabs a cushion and hits him on the arm with it, and they tussle briefly, which ends with Scott wrestling Stiles to the floor and pinning him across the chest with his knee. Stiles submits and then immediately tries to pants Scott as he moves to stand and Scott squawks with indignation. The situation degenerates again quickly.

“You're such a dick sometimes,” Scott huffs once the dust has settled. They're lying on the floor next to each other catching their breath.

Stiles grins happily, “Yup! I am a dick, I like dicks. What can I say dicks are a bit of a theme for me.”

Scott laughs and rolls his eyes.

Stiles looks across at Scott and feels a swell of affection for his friend, “So, what happened with Kira?”

Scott's brow creases, “I- I'm not sure. I thought we were getting closer, I've thought it for a while now. I was sure she was attracted to me, but I think I misread the situation. She didn't seem happy when I asked her out, she said she had to go and then sort of just... left.”

“Oh, dude, I'm sorry. That sucks.”

Scott scrubs a hand through his hair and sits up, “I mean, I'll be okay, on one hand It's just a crush y'know? The first crush I've had since Allison and I know I'll get over it, but it's just-- I'm kinda bummed because Kira and I have loads in common and I really like her. She's funny and sweet and a friend and I'd started to think we could be more- that we could be really good together y'know? But now?" he shrugs, trailing off.

Stiles levers himself up and sighs, “Hey, I know _all_ about putting yourself out there and getting knocked back. Learn from my mistakes, if she isn't interested, she isn't interested, and you've gotta let her go.”

“I know, and I will. It's just... I'm starting to think I'm really bad at understanding girls,” Scott says, dejectedly.

Stiles sighs, “Aw man, you and me both.”

"Besides," Scott continues, "I don't know, man. I think- I think I just really miss being in a relationship--”

And Stiles gets that, he does, maybe more than he ever has done before, but he doesn't really know what to say, so he nudges Scott's arm, “Hey, I snuck into Harris' office the other day and liberated half a bottle of Ogden's Firewhiskey. Wanna come upstairs and have a drink?”

Scott shrugs. “Just one drink,” he sighs eventually, “I do not need to be hungover tomorrow.”

“One drink,” Stiles promises, standing up and pulling Scott to his feet.

 

-

 

It is not just one drink.

They sit upstairs and pass the bottle between them, feeling the burn of it as it hits the back of their throats. Gradually Garrett and the other Gryffindor seventh years trickle into the dorm and one by one they decide to join them. Soon they're all sitting round together on the floor, passing the bottle between them, laughing and shooting the shit. It's nice. Stiles glances at Scott, who seems more relaxed. Happier. Like the camaraderie and the whiskey have taken the edge off his heartache. Then, one of the other guys, Stiles can't remember who, produces a bottle of Simison's Steaming Stout and someone else digs out a bottle of nettle wine from a trunk somewhere and soon everyone is buzzing.

It's gone 2am before they're all staggering back to their respective beds. Stiles isn't too bad- well, he feels a little light headed, but still in control– sort of. Scott's never been able to handle his liquor though. Stiles has to help him to the bathroom, and then help him back to bed. He tucks him in as best he can.

“You're the best,” Scott slurs, “I love you. You're totally my bes' friends you are.”

“I love you too, buddy,” Stiles says petting him clumsily on the head.

Scott grabs his hand and holds on to it tightly, “I wan' you t'know, that like you are just a beautiful, beautiful guy and y'totally my best frien' and I love you. Fuck. Did I say that already? I don't know. I better say it again. I love you and I'm so happy for you because y'have a Derek now.”

Stiles smiles fondly. “I do have a Derek now.”

“I'm so proud of you man, getting over Lydia and finding a healthy relationship, tha's so good. Y'r so good.”

Stiles laughs at him,“You are so, so drunk.”

“Not,” Scott responds petulantly, “Not drunk, jus' because I'm bein' nice you think I'm drunk. Anyway, you- you- you!” Scott blinks at him owlishly, searching for the right words and then snickers, “You wanna touch Derek's boner.” He buries his head in his pillow laughing like this is the funniest thing he's ever heard.

Stiles flops down on the bed next to him. “I really, really do,” he says seriously. He does. So much. Sometimes he thinks if he jacks off any more thinking about it, his dick is going to fall off.

“Bo-ner” Scott says, giggling again, “Bo-ner. Bo-ner. I've said it too many times and it sounds weird to me now.”

Stiles side-eyes him, “You're gonna regret this conversation so much in the morning.”

Scott grins, “Nah. We're good.” He stares off into the middle distance for a bit, and then says, “Kira's amazing. Allison's amazing too. I wish... I wish I was better at un'erstanding girls.”

He looks so sorrowful, with his big brown puppy dog eyes. Stiles rolls on to his side and props himself up on his elbow. “Girls are amazing,” he says, “but y'have to rememb'r they're jus' people with, y'know-" he whispers, "boobs. Or lots of them do, I think.”

“You're right. You're so right. Jus' people.” Scott says seriously, gesturing drunkenly with his hands.

“'Xactly” Stiles nods sagely, “They're jus' people like us. Prob'bly. At leas' I think that's the mistake I made with Lydia y'know? Thinking that she was something different. I think I put her on a pedal- a pedels- a pedestral- _fuck,_ I built her up to be something, but she was jus' a person. Like me an' you. An Allison's jus' a person and Kira's jus' a person. Girls are jus' persons- people I mean, and people are all the same but different, kind of like snowflakes, and you have to rememb'r that. Y'know. Girls are just people. They're as the same but different as guys are, an' you have to respec' that. Like you respec' the snow. Y'know?”

Scott looks at him blurrily, “That's the mos' important thing you've ever said. I'm gonna rememb'r it forever man.”

Then he rolls on to his other side and vomits over the side of the bed.

 

o0o

 

Derek doesn't see Stiles at breakfast the next morning. In fact nearly all the Gryffindor seventh year boys are missing from Sunday breakfast and lunch which is odd. He makes a mental note to ask about it.

For reasons Derek doesn't fully understand, this year, they have one full day of lessons on Monday, before breaking up to go home for the Christmas holidays on the Tuesday. He also has prefect duties on the Monday night, so he won't be able to pack then, which is why he spends most of Sunday afternoon packing his stuff. He refuses to leave it all until Tuesday morning ( _Laura!_ ), because it is always better to be prepared, there is _nothing_ worse then leaving that sort of stuff till the last minute.

He kind of wants to sneak some more one on one time in with Stiles, but it doesn't look like it's going to happen. Not before the Christmas holidays at least. He arrives early at Transfiguration, on the off chance that Stiles will be there early too. It doesn't happen, he just sits at his desk while all the other students trickle in. Professor Andrews arrives in a terrible mood, he hates tardiness and isn't particularly fond of Stiles either. Derek keeps looking back to the classroom door anxiously, when the lesson starts and Stiles _still_ hasn't arrived.

Stiles finally arrives fifteen minutes late. The door bangs open as he races into the room, robes askew. His hair sticks up in unruly tufts like he just got out of bed. He skids to a stop, out of breath. “Sorry about that!” he says brightly.

Professor Andrews glares,“Mr. Stilinski. So kind of you to join us!” The sarcasm in his tone is unmistakable.

Stiles straightens his tie and saunters over to his desk, “Not a problem Professor. Not a problem at _all_ . Always a pleasure to make time in my day for you. ” The professor bristles with anger.

Stiles drops his bag to the floor and collapses into his chair. He has his most shit-eating grin on his face and as Derek looks over at him, Stiles catches his eye and winks.

Derek shoots him a warning look, and ducks his head back down to his parchment, ignoring the way his stomach flips at Stiles' smile.

At the front of the room, Professor Andrews sneers, “Wonderful. Well. Seeing as it's such a _pleasure_ to spend time with me, I'm sure you won't mind joining me for detention this evening.”

Stiles inhales through his teeth and looks vaguely apologetic,“Ah well, Sir, I'd love to, I mean who wouldn't?" There's a ripple of nervous laughter from the rest of the class and Stiles grin widens. "The thing is," he continues, "I don't think that's gonna work for me."

“What a _tragedy._ Perhaps we could rearrange it to make it a time more _convenient_ for you,” Professor Andrews spits venomously.

Stiles leans forward in his chair, “Exactly. See I knew you'd understand sir. I never _believed_ all those things people say about you.”

Professor Andrews casts a look of complete loathing at him, but then a slow, vicious smile spreads over his face, “I tell you what, Stilinski. The class has just been learning about the exceptions to [Gamp's Law of Elemental Transfiguration](http://harrypotter.wikia.com/wiki/Gamp's_Law_of_Elemental_Transfiguration). Name one, just one, exception to Gamp's Law and we'll forget about the detention entirely. If you can't, then you get detention tonight, and every night of the first week back after Christmas holidays.” The Professor's eyes glitter dangerously and Derek's stomach sinks.

A low murmur rumbles around the room, the rest of the class glance at each other expectantly. Derek twists round in his chair to look at Stiles properly. “Food,” he whispers under his breath, “just say food.”

Stiles isn't looking at him though. All his attention is focused on Professor Andrews. He leans right back in his chair, until he's balancing on the back legs, his arm rests casually on the desk behind him. “One you say,” he says scratching his chin with his free hand, “Just one. Hmmm...”

There's a long pause and a victorious smile spreads across Andrews’ face, “You see, Stilinski, you don't know, and this is why you need to show up on-”

Stiles thunks forward in his chair, all four legs now resting firmly on the ground, His eyes haven't left Andrews' face. He grins sharply holding up a hand, “Woah, woah, woah! I wasn't pausing because I don't know the answer. I was just considering which one to choose. I mean, do I go for money? Or knowledge? Or maybe food? Or perhaps sou-” The expression on Andrews face is so sour he might have just sucked on an Acid Pop. The rest of the class start to laugh. Derek feels pride swell in his chest and bites his cheek to hide his smile.

“Enough!” Andrews' face is pale, except for two little red spots of color high on his cheekbones. “Enough of this foolishness. Let's get back to the lesson at hand!” Andrews turns his back and starts to write out equations, chalk squeaking angrily against the chalkboard.

Derek ducks his head down to his parchment, and then chances a glance across at Stiles. Stiles catches his eye, and smiles, tongue poking out from between pink lips. Derek shakes his head, he tries to pout disapprovingly but can't quite manage it. He has a vague notion that he _ought_ to be discouraging this, he should be using his new-found influence over Stiles for good. It's difficult though, because all Stiles quick wit and careless knowledge has actually done, is make Derek's heart pound in his chest and his dick hard in his pants. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and fights the urge to adjust himself. When he looks at Stiles again, Stiles winks and blows him a kiss. Derek closes his eyes in resignation, he's totally and utterly _screwed._

 

-

 

Derek doesn't see him for the rest of the day. Andrews asks Stiles to stay behind after class, and as much as Derek _wants_ to hang back and make sure he's okay, he has Arithmancy to get to and he can't bring himself to be late. He catches glimpses of Stiles at the Gryffindor table over lunch and then again at dinner, but again, there's no time to chat. It's hectic. Everyone rushing through their meal, anxious to get back to their dorm room and do some last minute packing before they finally get to go home for Christmas tomorrow.

By the time evening comes, he's on patrol with Kira and trying not to feel too sorry for himself.

They wander down the corridors of the third floor, silent except for the occasional painting that calls out to greet them.

“I talked to Scott,” Kira admits, drawing Derek out his brooding silence.

“Oh- good! How did it go?”

“Awkwardly,” she shrugs, “I don't think there was any version of that conversation that wasn't going to be awkward as hell, but I did it and I'm glad I did.”

Derek nods, “How did you leave things with him?”

She releases a long sigh, “We're definitely gonna be friends. I don't think it'll ever be more than that, because I'm not sure we want the same things. He's definitely looking for a relationship _._ I don't want that.”

“H-He was okay with you though? He wasn't- he didn't make you feel...” Derek doesn't quite know what he's trying to ask.

Kira seems to get it though, “He was really sweet. I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe for him to lay some kind of guilt trip on me or try and convince me that I might eventually come round to wanting a relationship or something. I was kind of dreading that to be honest. It didn't happen though. And even though I kinda wanted to float the friends with benefits thing, I didn't in the end. I think we're better off just being friends."

“I'm sorry.”

Kira shakes her head, “Don't be sorry. Look, he's attractive and stuff, but ultimately, I like Scott. I care about him a lot. His friendship isn't some...” she waves her hand airily, “consolation prize. I'm _pleased_ we're going to be friends. After all, _you_ know how much my friends mean to me. I could never be unhappy with that outcome.”

Derek leans over and kisses the top of her head, “Then I'm glad your happy.”

Kira links her arm through his and rests her head on his shoulder. “I am,” she murmurs, “I really am.”

 

-

 

It's just before nine o'clock, and they're nearing the end of their patrol. It's just the Astronomy Tower left. Kira checks her watch just as they're rounding the corner to it.

“Hey, Der,” she says, biting her lip, “I have a few last minute things to pack, and it's kinda getting late. Do you mind doing this last bit without me?”

He sighs, “Honestly? This is exactly why I suggested to you and Laura that we pack everything on Sunday night. No-one ever listens.”

“Poor Derek,” she pats his arm, “It must be so difficult being right all the time.”

He sniffs, “I know you're being sarcastic, but I want you to know it's a terrible burden.”

She chuckles and squeezes his arm one last time. “You're the best, Der!” she calls as she turns to leave.

“Hey!” he calls in exasperation, “I never actually said I didn't mind!”

It's too late she's already disappeared back around the corner.

Derek sighs heavily and starts to climb the twisting staircase to the Astronomy Tower. There isn't a single prefect who enjoys inspecting this place. For some reason that Derek has yet to fathom, half the students at the school seem to view it as some kind of make out point. A good seventy percent of the house points he's ever had to dock, have come from students he's found in various stages of undress in the Astronomy Tower. Hopefully there shouldn't be anyone there tonight though. It's been a quiet night so far, people are all too busy preparing to go home.

He reaches the top of the stairs, opens the heavy wooden door and steps into a large circular room with a wide opening that leads onto a large balcony. He shivers, it's freezing up here at night, and he isn't entirely sure why anyone would think it was a good place for a rendezvous. Especially not in winter.

The room is dark, no lamps are lit. “Lumos!” he mutters under his breath, holding his wand aloft. He peers about, there's no-one about and not a sound to be heard anywhere. On impulse he wanders out onto the balcony, just to check nobody has decided to freeze their ass off outside.

He doesn't need the light from his wand as he steps out here. The night is clear, the moon hangs silvery bright above him and a thousand stars are flung carelessly across the inky black sky. It's utterly breathtaking.

He leans against the stone parapet, rests his head in his hands and takes a deep breath. The ice cold air burns his lungs. Above him, stars drift aimlessly by and he spends a few minutes trying to pick out the different constellations. He gave up Astronomy after his O.W.L.s and he's a little rusty.

He's so absorbed trying to work out whether he can find Auriga, that he doesn't hear Stiles approach at all.

“Derek!” Stiles says reaching out to touch his arm. Derek starts.

“Fuck!” he breathes, “You scared me.”

“I said your name like three times, Der,” Stiles says, he's wearing his winter coat, and biting his lip in amusement.

“Ah. Well. I was d-distracted.”

Stiles glances up at the stars and then his gaze drifts back down to Derek, “It's beautiful out here,” he says pointedly, “I can see why.”

Derek opens his mouth, then shuts it again, “W-Was that a line?” he says eventually, “That felt like a l-line.”

Stiles grins smugly and slips his fingers through the belt loops on Derek's jeans. He tugs him forward. “It might have been a line,” he admits. “Did it work?”

Derek shrugs awkwardly, “D-Depends what you're expecting to get from it I guess.”

“Hmmm-” Stiles slips one hand around Derek's back and draws him closer, till they're pressed right up against each other. The other snakes up to cup the back of his head, “A kiss? Maybe?”

Derek rolls his eyes, but lets Stiles lean forward and brush a kiss against his lips anyway.

“What are you even doing here?” Derek asks when they pull apart.

Stiles shrugs, “I had it on good authority from Kira that you'd be in the Astronomy Tower this evening, and I wanted to make sure we said goodbye properly, before Christmas.”

Derek's stomach flips again, just as it had in the Transfiguration classroom earlier that day. “P-Properly?”

“I uh-” Stiles shifts awkwardly, “I bought you a Christmas gift.” He looks nervous all of a sudden, and kind of young.

“I-I didn't b-bring your g-gift here,” Derek says in dismay, “I d-didn't realize that you w-were going to-”

“That's not why I did it,” Stiles interrupts him, “You can give me a gift any time, or not at all. It doesn't bother me. I just wanted to give you this.” He reaches into the pocket of his winter coat and produces a slim rectangular package.

Derek takes it gingerly.

“Open it,” Stiles says.

“It isn't Christmas yet,” Derek points out, clutching it tight to his chest.

“I know,” Stiles looks boyish, nervous again, “It's just, I need to explain to you how to use it. It- It won't look like much and I want to-”

“Okay,” Derek says, cutting him off, “b-but we have to go inside. It's c-cold out here, and you're the only one wearing a coat.”

It isn't much warmer inside the actual tower to be honest, and it's darker. Stiles fishes his wand out of a pocket and mutters 'lumos' and the tip lights up. They make their way to the far end of the room, as far away from the cold night air as possible. Stiles sits down, his back resting against the wall, and after a moment's hesitation Derek joins him, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

In the dim light cast by the wand, Derek can see Stiles watching him nervously. “Open it,” he says again.

Derek nods, and starts to peel back the spellotape gently, careful not to rip any of the shiny red paper.

“It isn't special wrapping paper, Der,” Stiles says, amused.

“Sometimes it can be reused,” Derek responds snippily. Stiles shakes his head and laughs, but Derek ignores him. Truthfully, he just wants to keep every part of this moment, even the paper. He'll never admit it out loud though.

He eases a slim leather bound notebook out of the paper and opens it carefully. The pages are blank. “It's a notebook,” he says in surprise.

“Not just any notebook,” Stiles says. He takes an identical notebook out of another pocket, “They're a matching pair.”

“Okaaay,” Derek says slowly.

Stiles blushes, “I was just- It's been on my mind that we're going to be apart for over two weeks because of Christmas, and I won't be able to write to you because owls aren’t practical when we’re, like, a continent apart, so I was thinking about other solutions.”

“Other solutions,” Derek echoes.

“Yeah,” Stiles swallows, “I had this idea about a week ago, but I've been trying to get the charm right, and I finally did this morning. That's why I was late to class.”

“They're charmed?” Derek asks.

“Yeah!” Stiles scrabbles around in his pocket and produces his battered looking quill and a small smudged looking ink bottle, “Look, if I write in mine.”

He writes, 'Hi Derek', in his familiar spiky scrawl. “Now,” he says excitedly, “look in your book!”

Derek opens his notebook, the words 'Hi Derek' have appeared, in Stiles' telltale handwriting.

“Whatever is written in one, appears in the other,” Stiles says looking pleased with himself, “So we can write to each other over the holidays, whenever we want.”

Derek stares at the book in his hand disbelievingly.

“Do you like it?” Stiles asks, glancing at him. He gnaws his lip apprehensively.

Derek meets his gaze, his heart full. “Y-Yeah,” he manages, “Yeah, it's uh, it's okay.”

“Okay?” Stiles says face falling, “I mean, I know it's not the most expens- but I'm not, if you don't like it I can take it back-mmph”

Derek kisses him. It's awkward, the angle is off and their teeth clack together at least once, but he doesn't care. “You c-can't have it back,” he mumbles fervently, “It's m-mine. You gave it to m-me.”

“So, you do like it then?” Stiles manages between frantic kisses, “It's not just _okay_?”

Derek kneels back to catch his breath. “I-I'm b-better at writing than talking,” he admits, “I'll write y-you a thank-you note, you'll see.”

Stiles huffs out a laugh, “A thank-you note?”

Derek grins and plants a hand in the center of Stiles’ chest pushing him back on to the floor, and following him down.

“I l-like it,” he promises, kissing Stiles again, “Let m-me show you how much.”

 

 

o0o

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

Derek presses him down onto the cold, hard floor of the astronomy tower, and maybe Stiles should notice the discomfort of it, but he doesn't. Kissing Derek isn't like kissing anyone else. With Heather or Danny it was a race to the finish line, frantic and rushed, a means to an end that has to be reached as quickly as possible. With Derek it's a slow searching question, it's the gentle press of his tongue, the soft rasp of his stubble. It's broad hands skimming under Stiles' shirt, over his stomach, up his side, through his hair. It's the damp press of their foreheads, as Derek blinks at him muzzily and asks, “I-Is this okay? D-Do you want me to stop?”

Maybe Stiles should laugh at that. He's supposed to be the experienced one out of the two of them, isn't he? He doesn't feel like laughing. He feels nervous, elated, unmoored.

“Don't stop,” Stiles says, "Not unless _you_ want to." He leans up on his elbows, bumps their noses together, and kisses Derek again. With every brush of Derek's fingers, with every press of his lips, Stiles feels more and more exposed.

The kiss deepens, and those light, exploratory touches become firmer and more assured. He's achingly hard in his pants and as Derek shifts above him, he can feel that Derek is too. As they brush up against each other Stiles hisses in pleasure and Derek stills above him.

Stiles blinks up at him, and for a long moment they stare at each other, breathing heavily. Then slowly, deliberately, Derek rolls his hips again and Stiles rocks up to meet him. Stiles bites his lip against a moan. It's not exactly comfortable friction, his dick strains angrily against his pants, but it's been so long and it's _Derek._

It's good.

As they rut against each other Derek's arms shake with the effort of holding himself up, with the effort of holding himself back, but he doesn't break Stiles gaze, like he can't stop _looking_ at him.

It's the most vulnerable Stiles has ever been and the most confident he's ever felt. He reaches out and trails a finger over Derek's lips, along the strong line of his jaw.

“Merlin,” Derek mumbles, eyes fluttering shut, “I'm gonna-”

Derek buries his face in Stiles' shoulder, his glasses digging in, and tumbles over the edge with a muffled sob. That's all it takes before Stiles joins him.

After a long moment Derek rolls off him and they lie next to each other on the floor, breathing heavily.

“Wow,” Stiles murmurs.

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, pushing his glasses straight.

Stiles can feel his underpants sticking to him. It's going to be a nightmare to clean later, but he can't bring himself to care. He's still buzzing, he never thought the evening would end like this, but he doesn't regret it. Hopefully Derek doesn't either, even though things escalated kind of quickly.

From the beatific smile on Derek's face though, and the way he burrows his head against Stiles' shoulder, Stiles is pretty sure he's fine.

 

-

 

Stiles is still riding the high of the night before as he packs for home the next day. Even the thought that he's going home, and won't see Derek or Scott, or any of his other friends for two weeks isn't enough to dampen his mood. He sings loudly and obnoxiously as he stuffs his clothes into his trunk, until Garrett twitches back the curtain of his four poster bed and calls, “Shut-up Stilinski! Merlin's scraggy _ballsack!_ If I have to listen to you sing any more, I'm going to ram my wand down you're throat.”

“Aw Garrett, _your_ wand down _my_ throat? I'm very- flattered, but I'm also kinda seeing someone so-” Stiles gives him his most shit-eating grin.

Garrett purses his lips. He looks unutterably pissed. “Oh my God. You got laid last night, didn't you?” He scrunches up his face in distaste.

Stiles just waggles his eyebrows and returns to his packing, smiling. He starts singing again, he can't help himself. It's loud, tuneless and enthusiastic, and is probably pissing Garrett off even more, but he just can't bring himself to care.

“Ugh-” Garrett stomps back across the room and resumes packing with barely restrained fury. He bangs the lid of his trunk shut with an air of finality.

Just then the door to the dorm swings open and both Garrett and Stiles wheel round to see who it is. Scott trails in, followed by _Lydia_. The song dies on Stiles' lips.

“McCall, Martin, good to see you.” Garrett starts dragging his trunk out of the room. “Don't worry, I know it sounded like someone was being tortured, but it was just Stilinski singing. He got laid last night and now we all have to suffer.”

“Fuck you, Garrett,” Stiles calls, but his heart isn't really in it.

There's the sound of Garrett's trunk bumping down the stairs.

“Why doesn't he levitate it?” Lydia asks.

“Oh, he's never really mastered levitation,” Scott says. “There was an incident in the first year and well- we don't speak about it.”

“That's a grade one spell, he's a _seventh_ year.” Lydia's eyebrow lifts.

“Yeaaah,” Scott shrugs.

Lydia shakes her head incredulously. Stiles tries to catch Scott's eye. He isn't sure what _Lydia_ is doing in the Gryffindor boys dormitory, but he kind of wants a heads up if he's about to be blind-sided.

Scott grins sheepishly at him, “So,” he begins, clearing his throat. “Lydia wanted to chat with you, and um- I thought it wouldn't hurt.”

Stiles plasters a fake grin on his face, “Great!” he says with faux-brightness, “That's great. I'd love to chat.” He's going to kill Scott later, and from the look on his face, Scott knows it.

“Good,” Scott jerks his thumb toward the door, “I'm gonna leave you guys to it then.”

“Great!” Stiles says again, baring his teeth in a smile.

Scott winces and turns to leave and Lydia watches him go. “You're lucky to have a friend like Scott,” she muses. “He's a good guy.”

“Is he though?” Stiles huffs under his breath as he hurriedly wrangles the last of his underwear into his trunk.

Lydia's head snaps back to look at him. “Pardon?”

“Nothing- I mean, yes, Scott's a good guy.”

She arches an eyebrow at him, amused. “I know you're cross that I got him to bring me up here.”

“No!” Stiles says a little too quickly, “Why would you even-?”

Lydia snorts.

“Fine,” Stiles admits. “I just, I find it easier sometimes to ignore a problem until it just-” he waves an airy hand.

“So I'm a problem now?” She says it casually enough, but he sees something flicker in her eyes, wounded, like she thinks it might be true.

Stiles’ shoulders sag, and sits on the end of his bed. “No,” he admits finally, “You're not a problem. I'm the problem, or I was.”

She folds her arms and hunches in, “I didn't mean to hurt you Stiles. I know I said that already, but I just want to say it again. I want you to believe it. I- I've _missed_ you. I feel like I've lost one of my best friends.”

He blows out a sigh. “It's not you okay? It's me, and I'm sorry. I had this idea in my head, like only _I_ saw you, only _I_ knew who you really were. I thought we were meant to be, but we're not, you were right about that. You said last time we spoke that what I felt wasn't really love, that it was obsession or something, and I was so angry at you for that, but it turns out you were right about that too. I made you out in my head to be this- impossible, perfect, goddess and then couldn't understand when you did stuff that I didn't like, like date _Jackson_.” Lydia rolls her eyes, and Stiles continues, “You're not though. You're not perfect. You're not a goddess. You're you, and that's all you ever need to be. I'm sorry I was such a dick about it before.”

Lydia uncrosses her arms and they fall loosely to her sides. “I'd like to be friends,” she says eventually, voice unsteady. “If you want to be. Proper friends this time.”

Stiles stands and takes a step toward her, “Me too.”

She shoots him a watery grin and swipes away a tear, “Good.”

They hug each other, a great big bear hug, that makes his bones creak and his muscles ache. It's a funny thing, he's spent the greater part of his time at Hogwarts dreaming about her. Fantasizing about this exact moment, her in his room, in his arms. This is nothing like any of those fantasies. This is better. It's real and warm and good.

When they finally pull apart she smiles up at him, “So, you and Derek Hale, huh?”

He narrows his eyes, “Who told you that?”

She grins, “I have _eyes,_ Stiles. You've been mooning over him for weeks now.”

“Mooning?” Stiles blusters.

“Yes mooning, I noticed it and then _Scott_ said-”

“Dammit Scott!” Stiles throws his hands up in disgust, he glares at her suspiciously, “When did you two get so friendly?”

“I had to have some way of knowing what was going on,” she says, imperiously. “Scott has been _useful.”_

“Useful?”

“When he isn't being annoying.” A hint of a blush appears on her cheeks, “He has very fixed ideas, and he's quite stubborn for someone who seems so laid back.”

“I know, right?” Stiles sympathizes whole-heartedly. The number of schemes he's devised that have been perfectly _fine,_ only to be thwarted by Scott's sense of chivalry and fair play.

“He's frustrating,” Lydia admits. “But I talked him round in the end, and now here we are!” She grins.

“Here we are,” Stiles echoes. He gets a relationship with Derek and he’s going to repair his friendship with Lydia, it's possible he won't kill Scott after all.

 

-

 

Later that day, he and Scott are sitting on the Hogwarts Express together, on their way back to Platform 9 and 3/4's.

He loves this part of it.

The journey.

He always has done, right from the moment when he stood on the platform at Kings Cross station aged eleven, confused and homesick, wide-eyed and credulous, as the cherry red engine of the Hogwarts Express chugged into view for the first time. There's something about the rhythmic clack of the wheels against the track, the smell of the faded leather seats, the comforting buzz of student's chatting. When he first arrived here, lonely, grieving and guilty at leaving his dad, it had seemed to have a magic all of it's own.

Now, he sits in a carriage with Scott as the scenery zips past. Smoke billows past the window, and a game of wizard's chess sits between them.

“So, you spied on me for Lydia?” Stiles casually moves the knight out past a pawn, putting Scott's bishop in jeopardy.

Scott glances up at him, and away too quickly. “No- I wouldn't! She kind of just kept forcing the issue. I didn't tell her anything you wouldn't want me too, I swear.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow.

“It wasn't spying,” Scott insists, “she was just worried about you, and she wanted to make sure you were okay. That's all.”

Stiles watches him move his bishop out of danger, and expose his rook in the process.

“You made up though, right?” Scott asks.

“Yeah, we're gonna be okay, I think.”

“Thank God,” Scott breathes, relieved, “I do not need her on my back any more. I mean, she's okay, but when she gets an idea in her head she is both terrifying and annoying. Honestly, I don't know what you ever saw in her.”

Stiles shrugs, “I like strong willed people who know their own minds.”

Scott shakes his head, “She's just so- urgh!” he grimaces, trailing off. “Never mind.”

“What about you and Kira?” Stiles asks, grasping for a change of subject.

Scott sighs, “We're just gonna be friends.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I think she's only interested in something casual, like what you had with Danny or Caitlin. Which is fine-” Scott insists, “But-”

“Not what you're looking for.” Stiles finishes for him.

“Nah, I'm not built that way. I mean, maybe, if I didn't already like her so much, then it wouldn't have been an issue, I know I said before it was just a crush, but, it's just- I want all the romantic stuff y’know?”

Stiles nods. Scott is a not-so-secret die-hard romantic. It's difficult to imagine him being casual about anyone, let alone someone he's developed feelings for. In that respect, he isn't entirely dissimilar to Derek.

At that moment the door to the carriage opens and Derek's there, standing in the doorway. He's wearing his robes and his prefect badge, hair perfectly coiffed, black-rimmed glasses balanced on his nose. He looks every inch the model student. Except, Stiles has this one vivid memory now, of Derek lying next to him on the floor of the astronomy tower, flushed and happy, hair sticking up in mad tufts, eyes bright with laughter. He just can't shake that picture, and suddenly he wants to ditch wizard chess, wants to take quiet, studious Derek, who is so reserved, so serious, so proper, and do some very _improper_ things with him in a quiet corner of the Hogwarts Express.

Scott smiles broadly, “Hey, Derek.”

“Der, look at you with your badge, being all official,” Stiles winks. “It's sexy. I like it.”

“S-Stiles,” Derek says, the tips of his ears pinking, “I w-wanted to give you this.”

His hand contains a box, it's impeccably wrapped in tasteful gold paper, with a pristine green bow. Stiles reaches out to take it, his fingers grazing Derek's.

“Thanks,” he says, meeting Derek's eyes. “Should I open it now or-”

“Save it for Christmas.” Derek watches him intently. His eyes are beautiful. Stiles has noticed it before, but staring at them now, there are so many colors, green and grey, flecks of gold and brown. Derek’s so-

Scott clears his throat, “I-uh, think I'm going to go and see where the trolley is. I need to buy a Pumpkin Pasty.” He stands up and stretches. “It was good to see you, man.”

Derek starts, “Oh-um- you don't have to leave, I was just- patrolling. I c-can’t-”

“Bye, Scotty!” Stiles calls loudly, and reaching out a hand, he tugs Derek down onto the seat next to him, knocking chess pieces to the floor where they complain loudly.

“I-I really d-do have to p-patrol!” Derek begins, even as he sinks further toward Stiles.

Stiles pauses, lips parted, just a whisper away from Derek’s. “So go- if you want to. I won’t judge. I know it’s important to you.”

Derek swallows. He doesn’t move, but his gaze drops to Stiles’ lips. “M-Maybe I c-could stay for a little bit,” he concedes.

 

-

 

When they finally reach King's Cross Station both he and Derek are looking severely dishevelled, ties loosened, shirts untucked. Derek looks flushed, a slightly glazed look in his eyes. His robes are crumpled and his lips are pink and shiny. He looks nothing like the put together prefect that entered the carriage an hour earlier and Stiles has all the satisfaction of a job well done.

“Write to me,” he says as his brushes one more kiss against Derek's lips.

Derek nods, “Of c-course. I-I'll miss you.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and grins, “I'll miss you too, Genius.”

Derek tries to muster a scowl. There's no heat to it.

 

-

 

Portkey, that's the easiest way for Stiles to get home, and the Ministry of Magic organize one for him every holiday. It's not his favorite way to travel, but it's quicker and cheaper then getting on an airplane.

He's dumped unceremoniously in his bedroom at Beacon Hills a few seconds after touching the battered looking tennis ball the ministry official had provided for him. Everything is just as he remembers it. The same faded blue comforter on his bed, the same posters of that band he liked four years ago peeling on his wall. The room smells musty and a little sour, the way rooms do when they've not been lived in for months at a time. He scrambles to his feet and throws open the window.

It was nearly four o'clock in the afternoon when he finally left the UK, the skies there were a dull iron grey, air damp and cold. It's nine o'clock in the morning in California, and bright morning sunshine streams through the window. He takes a moment to breathe and feel the crisp bite of the air against his lungs.

It's strange to be back here, Hogwarts feels like a dream, distant and unreal. _It's not though,_ he thinks as his fingers dip into his pocket and dig into the soft leather of his notebook.

He should go and find his dad. That should really be his first priority, but he can't bring himself to do it. Instead, he drifts across the room and takes a seat at his desk. Rummaging around in the desk draw, he finds a battered looking quill and an old ink pot that he must have left here on a previous visit. He forces the lid open and dips the nib of the quill in the ink. The notebook spread open before him.

 **Hey Derek, I got home safely,** he writes in his spiky scrawl.

He stares at the page, watching as the ink dries. Derek won't be home yet. He lives in a mansion, out on some moor in the back of beyond. Derbyshire or maybe Devon? Stiles can't remember. Derek’s family have lived there for years though. It must be nice for him to return to a place he knows so well, for a moment Stiles feels a pang of jealousy.

This room, isn't the bedroom he had as a child. This drab apartment isn't where he grew up. This place barely feels like home at all. It's just a shell that contains bits and pieces of a life he tries not to think about too often. It's too painful.

Maybe his dad feels the same.

Sighing, Stiles gets up from his chair, and opens the door to his room. The apartment is still and quiet. It's possible his dad is at work. Stiles wanders from room to room, re-familiarising himself with it, half dreading what he might find.

The living room is tidy enough, sparsely furnished as always, but clean, and Stiles feels hope bloom tentatively in his chest. That changes once he checks out the kitchen though, the only things in the refrigerator are ketchup, a stick of butter and a six pack of beer. The cupboards are poorly stocked, and one look at the sell by dates reveal half of the contents are out of date. He braces himself as he checks the trash, and finds it filled with empty take away cartons and crushed beer cans. When he finds a mostly empty bottle of whisky stashed furtively at the back of a cupboard, Stiles' heart sinks.

He's debating whether or not to sneak up to his dad's bedroom, and see if there's anything hidden up there, when he hears the rattle of keys in the lock of the front door. He shoves the whisky bottle back where he found it and rises quickly to his feet.

“Hey Dad!” he calls as the door to the kitchen swings open.

His dad drop his keys in surprise. “Jesus! Son, you're back.”

His dad looks older, more careworn. He's gained weight and round the middle and there are deep furrows worn into his brow. He's wearing faded blue jeans and an ill-fitting brown sweater.

“You weren't expecting me?” Stiles steps forward, arms reaching out uncertainly for a hug.

“I got my dates mixed up I think,” his dad admits, “Or the times, or something.”

Stiles forces a grin, arms dropping a little. “No work today?”

His dad finally steps forward for a hug, and pats Stiles awkwardly on the back, “Work has been a little slow.” They separate and stand there. “How's school?”

“Good.”

“Good. That's good.”

There's a long silence. Too long. It's stilted and painful. They've forgotten how to be around each other. There's too much distance, between Hogwarts and Beacon Hills, between wizard and muggle. He feels like a stranger, in a strange house.

“Do- do you want breakfast?”

“I'm still on UK time so...” Stiles trails off.

“Dinner then?”

“Not yet. Maybe later.”

His dad nods.

There's a picture of Stiles' mom hanging on the wall behind him. She's smiling out at both of them, eyes bright and happy. There's a tree just behind her in the picture. It was the one that grew in the backyard of their old house.

The house they used to live in, before she died.

Before she got ill, they'd been happy, complete. His dad had been a deputy who was hotly tipped to be Sheriff one day. His mom had been a primary school teacher. They'd lived in a _nice_ family home, in a _nice_ suburb. Pillars of the community, that sort of thing.

Then the memory loss started, slow and insidious, eating away at her. Sometimes he wonders if one tragic event would have been easier, he tortures himself a little over it. Maybe, if she’d died in a car accident or something, then his last memories of his mother would be of her happy and whole. Maybe that would make things easier, maybe that would be worse. He suspects that there is no good way for it to happen, that there is no good way to lose someone you love.

The dementia though, had been a slow, creeping decline that gathered momentum, until it was a bullet train racing towards a final destination. It felt like cruel and unusual torture for all of them. The last year before she died, she was unrecognizable, a pale, skinny thing- fearful and confused, childlike, angry and afraid. It was almost a relief when she went, because in so many ways they'd already lost her in all the ways that mattered. And yet, it still ached when she wasn't there any more. When he knew he'd never get to see her face, her smile, never be able to come home and tell her about his day at school.

It still hurt more than anything has ever hurt him, before or since.

Her death is _the_ event, doomsday, ground zero, the single moment on which everything else in Stiles' life hinges.

She died, and the debt began to spiral out of control, hospital bills piled up that they couldn't afford to pay. She died, and Stiles' dad started to drink, just a little at first, to try and take the edge off. She died, and four months later an owl arrived with a letter for Stiles telling him he was a wizard. She died and Stiles was a wizard, and then he was in Hogwarts nearly nine months of the year, leaving his dad all alone. Wife and son gone in one fell swoop.

Suddenly, the next time he came home, his dad wasn't just drinking a little any more.

Within a year of her death, his dad wasn't a deputy.

Within a year, they couldn't afford their house and he'd returned from Hogwarts to a sterile apartment he didn't recognize. 

And yeah, his dad managed to pull it back a little, now he works as a PI. He scrapes a living finding cheating partners and missing persons, and they live in this crummy little apartment in downtown Beacon Hills. Money is an issue.

Money is always an issue.

Stiles' gaze skates over the picture of his mom. What would she say if she could see them now? If she could see the chasm that stretches between them? He doesn't want to feel this disconnect, but he has no idea how to bridge a gap that's been years in the making. There's so much guilt and hurt on both sides.

For one moment he wishes, really _wishes_ that it was a wizarding picture. That he could talk to it, to her. It wouldn't really be her, but it would be something.

His gaze settles back on his dad again, who's watching him with tired eyes and a frown. Stiles says, “If you want- maybe we could have a coffee.”

His dad shrugs, and walks past him to put the kettle on.

It’s going to be a long two weeks.

 

-


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks to Derek's past with Peter. Fair warning, Peter is really, really mean, so brace yourself. He's very cruel to young Derek, mocks his stutter among other things and I appreciate it could be very uncomfortable reading for some people. Look after yourselves.

Hale Hall stands imperious and alone, a craggy, forbidding structure battered by blustery winds, that seems to rise up out of the rocky promontory on which it sits and stand guard over the surrounding landscape. To the west it overlooks a large deep, dark, restless lake and encroaching around it from every other side is the wild, fierce beauty of the Derbyshire peaks. The Hales are one of the oldest wizarding families in Britain. Generations of them have been born and raised here, before moving on to jobs of significance and power, things that _mattered_. The corridors of Hale Hall are lined with old oil paintings, portrait after portrait, that show proud, imposing Hales, all with the same trademark dark hair and pale eyes.

When Derek was little, he never realized how old his home was, how much history it held. He and Laura used to run amok, playing hide and seek among the ancient suits of armour and crumbling antiques which filled the dim, lamp-lit corridors and dusty old rooms. Rooms filled with family history, the memories and possessions of generations of Hales past. At the time, he hadn't appreciated how unusual that was; now, he understands it only too well. He understands what's expected of him as a Hale. Hales aren't just a well thought of, rich, pure-blood family. Being a Hale is supposed to _mean_ something. The name carries weight, expectation and responsibility.

Hales are renowned for being excellent public speakers, charismatic and thoughtful. People you can trust, calm, confident, wise, involved, respected. In the last two hundred years, three Hales have served as Minister for Magic, one has been headmaster of Hogwarts and one headmistress of Beauxbatons. They all _achieve_ though. Some have been diplomats or ambassadors, members of the wizengamot, board members for places as varied as St Mungo's Hospital and the International Quidditch Association. Over the years they have lent their name to numerous worthy endeavors. Whatever the cause, a Hale's endorsement immediately adds gravitas and legitimacy.

His mother has continued that tradition as Head of the Department of Mysteries. His father is a renowned magical historian, famous for his groundbreaking theories on the goblin rebellions, and now Curator of Antiquities at the Museum of Magical History in London.

Whenever Derek returns here he's forcibly reminded of what his future is supposed to be, how he’s supposed to act.

He hates it.

He hates the pressure to succeed and the feeling that there's a 'right' option for him.

He hates the nagging feeling that he's going to disappoint his family.

He is, after all, not a typical Hale.

He’s always known he didn't quite fit.

He knew it the first time he couldn't get his words out, stumbling over syllables, blushing and anxious.

He knew it when he told his grandmother he wanted to be a writer, and she'd dismissed him with the words, “Don't be ridiculous, child. You're a _Hale_.”

He knew it when they placed the Sorting Hat on his head, and he was the first Hale in living memory to end up in Hufflepuff and not in Ravenclaw.

He knew it the first time he saw Stiles Stilinski's face, with his wide smile and whisky gold eyes. He knew then he would never be the Hale everybody expected him to be. He wouldn't get an _acceptable_ job, find a _nice_ girl, settle down and continue the family line.

He's always tried his best. He's an apt student, a prefect, the editor of the school newspaper. Most people wouldn't think of him as rebellious, and by most people's standards he isn’t.

Most people aren't Hales though.

Now, as he nears the end of his time at Hogwarts, he can feel the weight of everyone’s expectations bearing down upon him, so heavy it feels like it might crush him. When he’s at Hogwarts he manages to push it from his mind, but he won’t be able to do that for much longer, not now he’s hurtling towards the end of his seventh year.

One day soon he's going to have to sit down and have a conversation with his family. A conversation that will not be easy, and he isn’t sure how they will respond, he isn’t sure what it will mean for him. He has to be true to himself though. He decided that a long time ago. He can’t live his whole life in the shadows, trying to make other people happy. He won’t.

So.

One day soon, it’s going to come to a head. It has to.

He isn’t looking forward to this Christmas, not at all.

 

-

 

“U-Uncle P-P-Peter!” Derek runs across the hallway on stubby legs and launches himself at his favorite uncle, clinging to him like a limpet, with all the energy and enthusiasm that a five year old can muster.

“Derek.” His mother shakes her head ruefully and reaches forward trying to pry him off.

“It’s okay,” Peter smiles. He brushes her hands away and returns Derek’s hug tightly, ruffling his hair with one hand. Derek preens.

“Thanks for agreeing to babysit at the last minute, Peter. I really appreciate it. I got an owl from the ministry, and I need to leave straight away.” His mother buttons her cloak up tight, she’s biting her lip.

“It’s fine!”

“C-C-C-Can I-I-I r-r-read y-y-you a s-s-s-s-story?” Derek stutters out, looking up into Peter’s eyes.

Uncle Peter huffs out a sigh, “Let me take my cloak off, then we can do whatever you want.”

“Yay!” Derek clambers off him excitedly, and takes the stairs up to his room two at a time.

Behind him he hears his mother apologize again. “Sorry about that, and  thank-you. You’re just so good with him, and Laura, but Derek especially. He’s so anxious to read to you. He’s starting to make a little progress, with, well- you _know_.” Derek stumbles slightly at the top step, looks back down anxiously as he hears his mother’s tone of voice. She has her back to him, all her attention focused on Peter, but she’s talking about his stutter, he knows she is. His stomach churns.

“He’s adorable, I can’t wait for him to read to me,” Peter replies. “Now, stop apologizing and _go_.” He ushers her out the door.

Derek beams, he thunders along the corridor to his bedroom, barely able to contain his excitement as he dives under the bed in his room and pulls out his dog-eared copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard. He scrambles up on to his big four poster bed and opens it to The Wizard and the Hopping Pot. He turns the pages idly, reading, skipping over some of the more difficult words. Peter can help him with them when he comes upstairs.

Peter doesn’t come to find Derek though, and eventually, half-an-hour later, Derek trails downstairs clutching the book to his chest. He finds Peter sitting at the table eating a sandwich, the Daily Prophet open on the table in front of him.

Derek hovers uncertainly in the doorway, wide-eyed and suddenly, unaccountably nervous. The hairs on the back of his neck prickling. Something isn't quite right.

“Don’t lurk in the doorway, Derek, you aren't a house elf,” his uncle drawls, lazily flicking over a page of the newspaper in front of him.

Derek scampers across the room and stands next to him. “I-I-I b-brought m-my b-b-book,” he begins.

“Y-Y-Y-Yes, I c-c-c-can see that,” Peter mutters under his breath.

Derek flinches, confused. “Uh- I- Um-”

Peter sighs, he swallows the last bite of his sandwich, and fixes Derek with a cool stare, “How about I read the book to you and Laura, hmm?”

“B-B-But-”

“We both know I’ll be quicker, and it’s nearly bedtime. You don’t want to get in trouble because you were late to bed, do you? I don’t want to have to tell your mother-”

Derek’s face crumples, “I-I-I-”

“Are you going to argue, Derek? Or are you going to be a good boy?”

Derek bites his lip but nods dutifully.

“Excellent.” Peter’s smile stretches his lips thin.

Derek tightens his grip on his book. He disappears into the house to find Laura, unsettled and confused.

 

-

 

Laura and Derek make their way up the winding approach to Hale Hall, tired and irritable, Laura from the long journey, and Derek because he’s already missing Stiles and Kira. Laura seems to get more energized the closer they get to home though, she bustles through the front door, while Derek trudges reluctantly behind, his fingers digging into the pocket of his robe clutching tight to the little leather notebook Stiles gave him.

His mother appears at the top of the stairs, dark hair twisted intricately and pinned back. She smiles widely at them both. “Laura, Derek, you're back. How lovely.”

She glides down the stairs and kisses them both on the cheek, first Laura, then Derek.

Laura beams, “Where's everyone else?”

“Your father is up in the library, reading. I believe Cora is in her room.” She reaches out and straightens Derek's tie, tugs his robes so they lie a little flatter. Derek squirms, but accepts it. He has no idea what he looks like, but making out with Stiles on the Hogwarts Express for half an hour has probably left him a little rumpled. “Why don't you both go and freshen up, dinner will be served in the dining room at five.”

Derek nods mutely and trails up the stairs after Laura. The eyes of several portraits follow him. “Good Lord, boy! What happened to you?” wheezes a portrait of Rufus Henry Hale, former head warlock of the Wizengamot. “Look at the state of him, Arabella!”

A portrait of a large woman with pale green eyes and several chins peers down her nose at Derek and tuts, “I have never seen robes looking so crumpled. Have a bit of pride in your appearance, boy. You're a _Hale_.”

“Oh shut up!” Laura snaps, intervening before Derek can open his mouth.

“Rude child!” The woman, Arabella Rose Hale, (former member of the board of St. Mungos, who has an entire wing of the hospital named after her), glowers imperiously at them.

Laura bares her teeth in a smile. “I'll cover you with a dust sheet if you don't leave him alone.”

“Well!” Arabella's eyes bulge and her chins quiver in outrage. Without a word she turns in her frame and disappears off. She can be seen marching ahead of them, probably on her way to the framed portrait of Genevieve Hale, that hangs in the guest bedroom.

Laura sighs.

“You didn't have to do that,” Derek mumbles.

“I wanted to, she always pisses me off.” Laura casts an eye over him speculatively. “You do look like you've been mauled though. I'm surprised mum didn't say more about it.” She tugs his collar down, “Is that a hickey? _Merlin._ ”

Derek pulls away from her, his ears are burning, but he juts his chin out mulishly, and jams his glasses further up his nose with a finger. “Maybe she realizes it's none of her business.”

“Unlikely, but okay, okay! Message received!” She throws her hands up in surrender as she rounds the top of the stairs. “I'm happy for you, bro,” she punches him on the arm.

Derek rubs his arm and scowls pointedly at her. It doesn't hurt too much, but she doesn't need to know that.

She grins. “ _Circe_ , you're such a drama queen.”

“I am not.”

“Are too.”

“Am not.”

“Are.”

He shoves her and she pushes back, they tussle briefly, failing to hear the creak of the door next to them opening.

“Derek, Laura.” His father appears from the library, book in hand, glasses askew. Derek and Laura pull apart guiltily.

“Father,” they say in unison. Their father peers at them over the rim of his glasses, looking mildly perturbed.

“I see you two still manage to channel your inner five year olds whenever you’re together.”

“We didn’t-” they begin, and then turn to glare at each other.

“Quite.” He arches an eyebrow, and fixes each of them with a look in turn. “I'm half way through a most interesting chapter in Hartwin’s new book on the goblin rebellions of 1612 so do try and avoid brawling in the corridor.”

Derek can feel the blush on his ears creep to his cheeks. Laura scuffs her foot against the burgundy carpet. “Sorry, Father,” they mutter.

“Well then.” He looks between them absently, “It's good to have you back.” Their father pushes his glasses further up his nose, and glances back at his book. He drifts back into the library and the heavy oak door thuds shut behind him.

Derek and Laura stare at it and then turn to look at each other.

“You think he'll actually come out of the library the rest of the time we're here?” Laura asks.

Derek shrugs, “Probably not.”

She nudges his arm.

“I'm serious though, about you and Stiles. I'm trying really hard to step back, to be supportive and not interfere. But I still want you to know: I'm happy for you.”

He bites his lip against a smile. “I know. I'm happy for me too.”

 

-

 

“A-And th-this is my M-Mimbulus M-Mimbletonia,” Derek says, gesturing to the boil covered plant sitting on the table in the hallway. He looks up anxiously at his uncle, hoping for approval.

“So, you’re into herbology now, I see,” Peter says.

“Eight years old, and he’s always developing a new interest in something,” his mother cuts in, casting a look of fond exasperation his way.

Peter smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Derek blinks and looks away.

Later, when his mother leaves the room, Peter comes over to where Derek is carefully tending to the plant, and murmurs, almost to himself, “It’s rather an ugly thing, isn’t it? I can’t help but wonder why everyone is so- _attached._ ”

Derek shrugs. The plant is prickly and when it's annoyed or provoked it, it squirts it's aggressors with stink-sap. Sometimes Derek wishes he were a little more like his Mimbulus Mimbletonia. He chances a glance at Peter. “I-I l-like it,” he says, risking an opinion.

“Oh, are we talking about the p-p-plant, now?” Peter smirks. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste, I suppose.”

Derek blushes and turns back to the plant, shoulders hunched.

Not for the first time, his words fail him.

He doesn’t know what to say, so he doesn’t say anything at all.

He feels sick to his stomach, because all he’s ever wanted is for Peter to like him. All he’s ever wanted is Peter’s approval, but nothing he does is good enough. He doesn’t have Laura’s vivacity, he doesn’t have his mother’s cool head, or his father’s quick mind.

He can’t seem to _make_ his uncle like him.

He’s just going to have to try harder.

 

-

 

Derek’s bedroom looks like it always does when he comes home from Hogwarts. A large airy space, with a four poster bed and great big windows that open up on to a view of the peaks. The furniture is all ornately carved dark wood, polished and expensive. Heavy blue velvet curtains hang around the bed, tied back by bronze cord, and at the window, a mirror with a heavy bronze frame hangs on one wall. The whole room was last decorated when he was ten, before Hogwarts. All the colors of Ravenclaw.

For a long while it bothered him that he had been sorted into Hufflepuff. For the first few weeks, he felt guilty and ashamed. He wondered what his parents would say to him the first time he returned home after the sorting. The first Hale in Hufflepuff.

It had been fine in the end, sort of. His mother had been accepting, if a little confused. His father never mentioned it, half the time Derek isn't sure if he’s aware Derek _is_ in Hufflepuff. He spends so long poring over books in the library, buried in knowledge and absorbed in his own abstracted thought, it’s difficult to know what’s going on in his head.

His grandmother had raised an eyebrow, sniffed, and then turned to talk to Laura. He'd never been a favorite with her, and honestly, he was fine with that. He still is, years later, even now she's passed away.

Peter though...

By that stage Derek knew what to expect, knew that Peter liked to prey on him, liked to pick on the things that made him different, finding out he was in Hufflepuff had just been one more thing, more evidence that Derek wasn’t quite up to scratch.

Derek has spent the last six and a half years telling himself he doesn’t care what Peter thinks.

He’s desperate to believe it, but he's not sure he ever really will.

The problem is, it's easy to tell himself he doesn’t care here, in the seclusion of his room, or when he’s safely tucked away at Hogwarts. It’s so much more difficult to feel that when he's confronted with him, face to face. _Merlin,_ he feels like such a coward.

Derek flops back on his bed and reaches into the pocket of his robe, retrieving his notebook. He opens it to the first page and inhales sharply, Stiles has written to him.

 

_Hey Derek,_

_I got home safely. I figured I should let you know. Not gonna lie, I feel weird writing stuff. I have no idea what to say. I’m not even sure when you’ll read this, or when you’ll get a chance to write back. I just thought I’d let you know- I’m home. In California. With my dad. Merlin, this is weird. When I had this whole notebook idea, I didn’t think about the fact that I would have to write to you. I mean, I did, but- nevermind. I'm not great at writing. I've always been more comfortable talking. When I write I’m too busy second guessing myself. I mean, look at this. Look how much I’ve written and I’ve not actually said anything. I’ll just have to practice, I guess. Okay. Enough. I'll talk about something else. Write. Oh, you know what I mean!  
_

_I miss you. See? Now I sound like a sap. I do though. Miss you, I mean._

_Anyway, things are weird at home at the moment, they're always weird at home. Are things weird for you too? Your parents are magical, so it isn’t the same, maybe it isn't such a big culture shock._

_Write soon._

_Stiles._

_P.S. I just read back through this and realized I used the word weird, like, five bajillion times. Sorry. I can feel your eyebrows judging me from a continent away._

_Haha._

 

Derek reads it through three times, tracing the lines of the letters with one finger, a small smile playing on his lips. He may have to get through the next two weeks, but at least he has Stiles to distract him.

He heaves himself off the bed, about to sit at his desk and write a reply. There’s a loud thump against the door, and then Laura calls.

“Hey, Der! The dinner’s getting cold. Come on.”

Derek huffs out a sigh, places the notebook on the desk, and lets his hand linger on it for a few seconds. He casts one more wistful glance at it, before wandering downstairs to see his family.

 

-

 

“And then the big dragon says, _I’ll gobble you up for my dinner!_ ” Peter smacks his lips and jams his fingers into Laura’s armpits, tickling her.

Laura shrieks with laughter and curls into a ball.

Derek sits awkwardly on the couch, peering at them both over the top of his book, his glasses sliding low on his nose. It almost looks like fun, but he knows better by now.

“Derek, help me!” Laura screeches, giggling wildly, pudgy arms flailing as she tries to wrest Peter away.

“Derek can’t help you now,” Peter calls, scornfully. “What do you expect him to do? Throw his book at me?”

Laura tries to crawl away, helpless with laughter. “Derek,” she calls, “come and join in!”

“Yes, Derek. Come and join in!” Peter says, looking up at him, eyes glittering.

Derek shakes his head and folds further in on himself.

“Utterly spineless,” Peter says, tickling Laura again. “No risk of _him_ getting into Gryffindor when the time comes.”

“He was never going to be in Gryffindor anyway, all Hales end up in Ravenclaw,” Laura huffs breathlessly. “You know that.”

“Maybe,” Peter says, grinning like a shark. “I’m not sure he’s Ravenclaw material.”

Derek inhales shakily, buries his head further into his book. Laura opens her mouth to protest, but Peter launches another tickle attack, and whatever she was going to say is lost among the squeals.

It doesn’t matter anyway, there’s nothing he can say to Peter, so there’s no point in trying.

 

-

 

His father doesn’t join them for dinner, and his mother receives an urgent owl and just _has_ to respond to it straight away, so it ends up being just him, Laura and Cora sitting around the table, pushing food around their plates. In the background Geniveve and Arabella Hale whisper to each other, they’ve set up camp in a landscape portrait, and are watching the three of them through narrowed eyes.

He hates being back here. Hates it so much. Wishes he were literally anywhere else right now.

“Uncle Peter’s going to be here on Christmas Eve.” Cora announces apropos of nothing. She’s watching them both suspiciously.

Laura scowls, Derek shrugs, feigning a calm he doesn’t feel.

“Why don’t you like him?” Cora asks.

“Easy. He’s a shi- _ow!_ ”

Derek kicks Laura under the table. “Who says we don’t like him?”

Cora doesn’t deign to reply, just raises one eyebrow.

“Do _you_ like him?” Laura asks.

Cora shrugs, kicking her legs against her chair rhythmically, “He’s kinda okay. He’s old, but he doesn’t smell funny.”

“But he’s- he’s _nice_ to you?” Derek asks. He’s never thought about this before, and suddenly it feels like an unforgivable oversight.

“I guess,” Cora sniffs. “Why? Isn't he nice to you?”

“Mind your own business, Runt.” Laura drawls, taking a sip of water.

Derek rolls his eyes.

Cora glowers at them both. “I hate being the youngest. Just because you two are older and at _Hogwarts,_ doesn’t mean you can have _secrets._ I’m growing up, you know! Next September, I’ll be at Hogwarts too.”

“Uh, yeah, and we’ll be gone, so we won’t have to deal with you,” Laura bites out.

“Good!” Cora slams her knife and fork down on the table. “I wouldn’t want you there anyway.”

She springs to her feet, knocking her chair back from the table and storms from the room.

“Nice,” Derek says.

“She’ll get over it.”

Derek stands up from the table.

“Where are you going?” Laura asks, brow wrinkling in confusion.

“To find Cora.”

“You worry too much.”

“Or, maybe I remember what it’s like to feel alone in my own home.”

Laura scowls, “But-”

Derek glares.

“Fine,” Laura moans, “Fine, I’ll come too. Just- this family is so fucking dysfunctional. I can’t even.”

“Such language!” They both turn in unison to stare at Arabella Hale, who's scowling reproachfully at them, chins quivering with righteous fury.

Laura sucks in a breath through her teeth. “Fucking paintings,” she mutters.

“I heard that!” calls Arabella Hale.

Laura blows a raspberry at her. “You were meant to.”

 

-

 

It’s his tenth birthday, well, his and Laura’s. He spent the morning sitting at the table writing a story with the new quill set his parents bought him, and fighting a lingering feeling of dread.

His mother has somehow managed to take the day off work, which should be good news, except she’s never truly able to stop working, even when she’s at home. She’s sitting at the dining room table now, writing a letter to some obscure ministry official, and in about an hour’s time the rest of the family will be arriving, which means his _grandmother,_ and worse, _Peter_. To add insult to injury, his father has barely stirred from studying all day, and he can hear the tetchy note to his mother’s voice as she calls, “Laura, go and prise your father away from his books.”

Laura rolls her eyes and peels herself off the couch, heading out the door.

The doorbell chimes, “Derek, that will be Peter, he’s arrived early to help. Go and let him in please. I have fifteen minutes before Cora wakes up from her nap to finish this letter to Septimus Doge, and then we have to start getting the place ready for visitors.”

Derek pushes his glasses up his nose and shrinks.

“Derek!” she calls sharply, as the doorbell rings again, “Go and answer the _door_.”

Derek clutches his parchment and quill to his chest. He makes his way to the large hallway, and pulls open the huge wooden door.

“Well, if it isn’t the birthday boy.” His uncle offers him a tight-lipped smile. “So lovely to see you.”

“U-Uh-” Derek mumbles, keeping his head down.

“It’s traditional to return the greeting. Something like, ‘It’s nice to see you too,’ would do it.”

Derek blushes hotly, still not looking up.

Peter shakes the snow off of his cloak. “What’s this?” he asks, reaching for the parchment, Derek starts back, ducking out of his uncle’s reach. “More of your _writing_ , I imagine _._ We’ll have to take a look at that later, won’t we?”

Derek curls in on himself further, and shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak in front of his uncle

“Peter,” his mother calls, appearing in the hallway. “So lovely to see you! Derek, why haven’t you invited him through for a drink?” She glares at him accusingly. “I swear I don’t know what’s going on with that boy sometimes.” She sweeps across the hall and kisses Peter’s cheek. “He used to be such a happy little child, now I feel like I’ve got a teenager on my hands, and he’s only just turned ten. So sullen and withdrawn all the time. We can barely get two words together out of him.”

“It’s okay, Talia,” Peter says, curling one arm around Derek’s shoulders and squeezing tightly. Derek stiffens at the contact. “I was just wishing him a happy birthday, and Derek was just telling me all about his new project.”

His mother smiles. “Well, I should have known _you_ would be able to get him to open up. You’ve always been so _good_ with him.” She turns to leave. “Come through to the dining room and have a cup of tea. Derek, go and check on Cora, she’ll be up from her nap any time now.”

Derek nods and flees up the stairs, hands trembling. He rushes to his room and jams his papers haphazardly in the drawer of his desk, then stands there, he doesn’t want to go downstairs. He doesn’t want to see Peter, or anyone else. He just wants to hide.

Later that afternoon, when all the guests have arrived, and the birthday cake has been cut, he returns to his bedroom to find Peter rifling through his desk drawer, reading the story he started writing earlier. His stomach drops, churning. He thinks he might be sick.

“Derek, what are you doing here?” Peter says, without looking up.

When he looks back later in life, with the benefit of hindsight, he thinks that it's that question that does it, that starts to wake him up, that makes him realize that this conflict between them isn't really anything to do with _him_ at all. It isn't his fault. It's nothing he can control. It's all down to Peter. It’s just so ridiculous. So stupid. The audacity of it. What is _he_ doing here? In his _own_ room? Derek doesn’t even realize his hands are balled into fists until he feels the bitten edges of his nails pressing into his palms. And suddenly, just like that, for the first time ever he's angry. Furious. With Peter and with himself.

“Wh-wh,” he takes a deep breath through his nose, and out through his mouth, he starts again. “What are _you_ doing in _my_ room?”

Peter’s eyes flick to him lazily, and then away. “I’m not sure this is the best use of your time, Derek,” he says, putting the parchment down with a disappointed sigh. “It’s just- what’s the word, well, lets be honest, thoroughly mediocre.”

“I-It isn't your b-business what-”

Peter takes a step towards him. “I’m only saying it because I care, Derek. Do you understand? I’m _concerned_ for you.” He places a hand on Derek’s shoulder.

Derek stares up at him, and sees him, really _sees_ him for the first time.

“N-No,” he says, “N-no, I-I don’t think you are.”

A slow smile spreads across Peter’s face. “N-N-N-No? Interesting, well-” He can feel Peter’s eyes on him, can’t help the way he stiffens as Peter moves closer and bends down, until his face his right by Derek’s. “All these different interests,” Peter says softly, his breath warm against Derek’s ear. “The writing, the _incessant_ reading. What good is it all, if you can’t _even_ get a sentence out?”

Derek swallows, hot and uncomfortable. His hands are trembling.

“Laziness,” Peter continues, in a low voice, “I think that’s what it is, don’t you? That, or you just want the attention. So which is it, Derek, hmm?”

“I-Uh-I-”

“I-I-I-” Peter begins, mockingly. He doesn’t get to finish the sentence. Laura launches herself at him through the doorway, a blurry, whirling ball of fists and pudgy kneecaps, she catches Peter off guard, and they both tumble to the floor. Shrieking, she smashes her fist into his face.

At first, there’s nothing but the sickening crunch of Peter’s nose. Derek's too shocked to move. He hadn't even heard Laura's approach.

Laura reels back, furious, shaking, horrified, she stares down at the sudden spurt of blood coming from Peter’s nose.

For one horrible moment they all just stand there.

“You little-” Peter scrambles to his feet, throwing Laura off.

“You stay away from him,” Laura spits.

Peter clutches his nose, hand covered in blood. “Wait until I tell your, mother.”

“Tell her, go on. Tell her I did this. Tell her your ten year old  _niece_ broke your nose, and I’ll tell her what you just said.” She juts out her chin defiantly, eyes flashing.

Peter subjects her to a long, cold stare, face pale and getting paler still. “Fine,” he hisses, striding out of the room. “Fine.”

Laura turns to Derek, “I can’t believe he would say that! What the hell?!”

Derek shrugs, he can feel himself blushing, he wishes the ground would open up and swallow him whole. “I-It isn't a big deal.”

“No, it is. It is a big deal.” Laura wraps her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug. “He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” Derek swallows and Laura watches him, eyes narrowing, “Has he- has he done this before?”

Derek stares down at his feet. Shrugs again.

“How often?”

Derek doesn’t reply, he doesn't know where to start.

“How often, Derek?” There’s a snap of irritation to her tone which only serves to turn his embarrassment to fury.

“Just, back off, Laura. It’s nothing to do with you, okay?”

He pushes past her, anger surging through him. He’ isn't angry at _her_ , not really, but he still has all his impotent rage at Peter flowing through him, needing release, and she’s the easiest target.

Later that evening though, when he’s lying in bed all alone, he feels the white hot burn of shame. Laura didn’t deserve that attitude. Not really. She was only trying to help. In the dark of his room, while the whole house sleeps, he can admit that the only person he’s really angry at is himself.

He’s never going to let himself be that weak again.

He isn't going to be that person. Angry. Vasciliating. Weak.

He isn't going to let this turn him into some bitter, hard hearted person.

He’s going to be kind and honest and loyal, he’s going to stand up for himself.

He isn't going to care what Peter thinks.

Never, ever again.

It doesn’t work out that way, obviously. He tries though, he tries really _damn_ hard.

 

-

 

It takes them a little while to find Cora. They scour the house, twice over, calling her name, before finally hearing a tell tale sniffle as they’re leaving her bedroom for the second time.

Derek and Laura stop, look at each other, and then, sighing, Derek gets down on his knees and peers under her bed.

“Go away!” Cora glares out at him, swiping angrily at her eyes. Derek pretends not to see the tears. Instead he takes a seat on the floor by the bed, and after a pointed look at Laura, she joins him.

He glowers at Laura and then back down at the gap under the bed. She shakes her head. He stabs a finger at the gap, eyebrows knit together in a little vee. Laura pouts. Derek purses his lips.

Laura rolls her eyes, but eventually sighs and mutters grudgingly, “Sorry, Cora.”

There’s a muffled intake of breath.

“You don’t mean that.”

Laura glares at Derek. He folds his arms and stares her down.

She sighs and gets down on her belly, so she can look Cora in the eye. Derek follows her, so that they’re lying on the floor next to each other.

Cora blinks balefully at at them. “You’re only saying sorry because he _told_ you to.”

“That’s not-” Laura begins.

Cora snorts.

“Okay, maybe a little. I _am_ sorry though. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

Cora juts out her chin defiantly, “I didn’t cry.”

Laura glances at Derek, who raises one eyebrow expectantly. “Okay, no. Sorry. Of course not.”

There’s a long pause, “So are you going to tell me why you don’t like Uncle Peter?”

Derek swallows and closes his eyes.

Laura bites her lip. “I don’t- It isn't really my story to-”

“O-Okay,” he says, interrupting her. “Okay, but nobody else knows this except me and Laura.”

Cora crawls out from under the bed, wiping her nose on the back of her sleeve. “I’m good at keeping secrets. I won’t tell anyone.”

They all scramble to sit up, cross-legged on the floor by her bed. Derek watches Cora. She was two years old when Laura broke Peter’s nose. Barely three by the time he and Laura started Hogwarts. It must be hard being the youngest. Feeling like you’re the one that’s missing out while your brother and sister disappear off and grow up before you. Especially in this house. At least when his parents were busy, he had Laura to play with. Cora doesn’t have anyone.

He clears his throat, opens his mouth and begins to talk.


	20. Chapter 20

 

Stiles sighs. He’s sprawled in an armchair watching Jeopardy reruns, his notebook lies open on his chest. His dad is out somewhere, Stiles isn’t sure where, but it’s nearly 8pm and he’ll probably be back soon. He’s spent the last half an hour reading and re-reading Derek’s reply and brooding about his dad. He glances down and reads through it again:

_Stiles,_

_I find it weird to be home too. Although my parents are magical, we don’t- well, I was going to say we don’t get on- but that’s not true. We don’t see enough of each other to have any kind of relationship really._

_They both work, and I know lots of people whose parents work, but my parents take it to another level. We barely see my father outside of his study or the library. I think my mother wants to be there for us in her own way, but she has such a high ranking position at the ministry that she’s always being called away, always stressed, always busy. Neither of them have ever been around that much. We have a house elf, Pippy, who pretty much does all the cooking and housework.  I used to think that was normal until I came to Hogwarts. Now I know it’s just normal for us._

_Laura and I arrived home to find my father working in the library. My mother disappeared off almost immediately to send an urgent owl. In the end it was just my sisters and I at dinner, and I know it will probably be that way the entire time I’m home. To be honest, most of the time, it’s a relief._

_Anyway, enough about me. How is your dad? Have you talked to him about your post-Hogwarts plans yet?_

_I miss you too._

_Derek_

 

The sound of a key in the lock startles him. He shuts the book and shoves it down the side of the couch, just as his dad comes into the room.

“Hey, son.”

“Yo, Dad.”

His dad shucks his jacket, and then deposits a bag full of shopping on the kitchen counter. Stiles can hear the telltale clank of bottles. He frowns.

“What’s for dinner tonight?”

His dad shrugs. “I thought we could order pizza.”

Stiles runs his tongue along his top lip and eyes his dad nervously taking in his thinning hair and tell-tale paunch, the bags under his eyes his skin pasty and sallow.

“If you want,” he says reluctantly.

His dad’s gaze snaps to him mouth tightening in a thin line. “You don’t like pizza?”

“No- I mean- I do. _Obviously._ But-”

“But? ”

There’s a hint of a challenge there, or maybe a warning. Stiles can’t tell which. He bites his lip and swallows what he wants to say. Instead he settles on, “I like pizza.”

“Okay then.”

His dad starts to unload the shopping, bread, cereal, Kraft mac and cheese and a six pack of beer.

“Maybe I could cook! Tomorrow, I mean,” Stiles blurts.

His dad raises an eyebrow and opens the fridge door, putting the beer inside. “They teach you to cook at school, did they?”

“I- No, I could try though. If you want. I just- I want to be useful.”

His dad sighs. “Fine. None of that health food crap though. I’ve been working on this figure for a while.” He pats his belly.

Stiles forces a grin and sinks back further into the couch.

 

-

 

Derek,

It’s good to hear from you. Sorry to hear about your parents, dude. That fucking sucks. I didn’t realize you had another sister. Is she as annoying as Laura? Or is Laura just a super special case? (Only joking. Don’t tell her I said that. Seriously. I like my balls where they are, not sewn into the lining of her purse.)

To answer your question, I haven’t spoken to my dad. Things are weird. (I keep using that word but- they are, so, whatever.)

It’s really stilted between us. I want to make things better, but I don’t know where to start. Honestly? I’m worried for him. He looks unhealthy and unhappy. He’s put on weight and he drinks more than he should. I want to say something, but do I have that right any more? I’m here for a couple of weeks and then I’ll be gone, with no way of getting in regular contact. Sometimes I think he must hate me so much for going away, for being what I am, for leaving him alone after what happened to mom. Even though I never really had a choice.

Anyway, I offered to cook for him tomorrow. It felt like the right thing to do at the time, thing is- I can’t fucking cook! Nevermind, nothing says: ‘Sorry I’m not the son you need me to be’ like accidental food poisoning, right? It’s what our father/son relationship has been missing.

Anyway, sorry to rant on about boring family stuff. I should be trying to romance you. Write you poetry about your eyes, or something.

~~Your eyes are the color of  
~~

~~Your hair is as sof~~

~~Everytime I look at Der~~

Okay, brace yourself, I just spent an hour writing this:

 

_There once was a wizard called Derek,_

_And I wrote him something poetic,_

_An ode to his hips_

_And the curve of his lips,_

_And his eyes, which are so atmospheric_.

 

Okay! Okay! I know it's shit, but don’t judge me, okay? Hardly anything rhymes with Derek. Fortunately, I’m in the muggle world now, and Google is my friend.

I miss you too.

 

Stiles

 

-

 

Dear Stiles,

I honestly don’t know what to say, except... nobody’s ever written anything like that about me before, and I am genuinely impressed that you managed to rhyme my name. Also, who is Google? A family friend? Or someone you went to school with when you were young?

I’m sorry to hear about the situation with your dad. Don’t apologize for writing to me about it, you can tell me anything and if it helps, I think I understand a little of what you’re feeling.

As you noted in your letter, I have another sister, Cora, who is eleven, (and just as scary as Laura in her own way). One thing this visit home has shown me is that I’ve completely neglected my relationship with her.  I didn’t realize I’d been doing it, but that’s no excuse. I feel so guilty!

I spent a lot of my childhood wanting to get away from home. When I finally got to Hogwarts it almost felt like I’d escaped. It wasn’t always easy, I’m not the most confident or outgoing person, but I slowly found friends, and carved out a niche for myself. I discovered who I was, independent of my family, and I’ve spent the last six or so years resenting every moment I have to be back here.

However, since returning to my parent's home this time I've noticed how lonely Cora is. At least when I was her age I had Laura, and as much as I complain about that, we were company for each other. We understood each other and we had each other’s backs. Cora hasn’t had anyone. And I'm really worried about her.

Anyway, I’m trying to make things better and look out for her more. We’ve been spending a lot more time together in the last couple of days, we're talking a lot more and opening up to each other about stuff, I think it’s helped. It will be more difficult once Laura and I are back at school, but I intend to write to her every week, so there’s that.

I think your idea of making a meal for your dad sounds great. I know you say you can’t cook, but it’s the thought that counts. Do you have any cookbooks or maybe a simple meal you used to enjoy together when you were younger? Nostalgia might be a good route to take if you’re looking to build bridges with him, it could remind you both of the things you have in common.

Anyway, it’s nearly midnight here, and I promised Cora I would take her Christmas shopping in Diagon Alley tomorrow, so I better go to bed.

I think about you a lot. All the time. Do you ever think about that night on the Astronomy Tower? I do.

 

Derek

 

-

 

Derek,

Oh God, dude, I think about that night on the Astronomy Tower all the time, and also the train journey back too!! Let’s just say I’m surprised my right hand hasn’t cramped up and dropped off and leave it there, shall we? That might sound bad, but there’s nothing else to do here, so I pretty much just think about you and panic about my dad and my future. I don’t really know anyone in California any more, most of the kids I grew up with have formed their own friendships and I wouldn’t know what to say to them anyway, because I'm a wizard and they're all muggles.

Anyway, I’m not gonna lie, I was skeptical about your whole ‘nostalgic cooking’ idea at first. I didn't think ruining a good memory with my (probably) awful cooking skills would do much to help my relationship with my dad.

Then I thought about it a bit more and decided to at least have a look and see what I could find.

You see, neither my dad or I cook that well, but my mom had cookery books and this little box of index cards where she wrote recipes down. So I had a look around and found them in a closet while he was out at work. I found more than just books too. I found her old apron and oven gloves and this little sign that used to hang in our kitchen which read: ‘If you don’t like my cooking, lower your standards,’ I hadn’t seen it in years. Everything smelled kinda dusty, and old, you know how things get if they haven’t been used in a while. Sometimes, when I was a kid, she’d let me help out in the kitchen and I even found my old apron, it’s tiny and blue with little green frogs all over it. I’d forgotten it existed. Anyway, I took the recipe cards out and had a look through them. They’re full of her handwriting, like, there are the actual recipes, and then there are all these little notes in the margins and doodles and suggestions. It’s a little part of her that’s still here, a part I didn't realize I still had.

She used to make chicken this one way that my dad really liked, so I went out at lunchtime and picked up the ingredients and tried to make it, she’d written a load of notes on the recipe card for it, so that was kinda felt like she was there with me, helping me do it, you know? And it wasn’t a total disaster. I mean, my dad and I are both still alive and neither of us got sick, so I think I did alright. It didn’t taste exactly like when my mom made it, because I was supposed to use oregano, and I could only find sage. (I figured they’re both green and plant like, so it wouldn’t make much difference. Turns out it matters more than you’d think).

My dad liked it though. I think. When he came in from work, and saw the recipe cards, and the mess in the kitchen he got this tight look around his mouth, and I thought he was going to ream me out. He didn’t though. He ate it. Then we sat and watched a baseball game together on TV. It might not sound like a huge breakthrough or anything, but I made an effort and he didn’t reject me. It felt good.

I’m still not a hundred percent sure I did the right thing though. Later that night I came into the kitchen to get a glass of water, and he was sitting at the kitchen table reading through the recipe cards and drinking a glass of whiskey. That freaked me out a bit, because I don’t like to see him drinking. (I know, I know, I sound like the biggest hypocrite saying that.)

Anyway, I tried, and hopefully that’s what counts.

Enjoy Christmas shopping with Cora.

I miss you loads.

Stiles

 

P.S. I really want to answer your Google question, but every time I go to to write an explanation, I realize that the words I’m using to explain it require their own explanation. Basically Google is not a person, it’s a thing that allows you access to the entire sum of Muggle knowledge throughout history. It’s extremely useful for almost anything from cooking tips to writing bad poetry and even accidentally staying up till four in the morning learning more than anyone ever needs to know about the mating habits of clownfish, among other things.

 

-

 

Dear Stiles,

I loved reading your letter and learning about your mom. She sounds wonderful. I've never lost someone like that, apart from grandparents, but we never used to see them much anyway. I can't imagine how hard it's been for you and your dad, but it sounds like maybe the last couple of days were a step in the right direction. I hope so.

I'm sorry you feel lonely, I wish we could be closer. I think about you all the time and I can’t wait to see you again. You can write to me any time, about _anything_ , and even though we’re in different timezones, I’ll always get back to you as soon as I can.

By the way, when you say ‘enjoy’ Christmas Shopping. I think you need to know that it’s not really possible. The only time I have ever enjoyed it was on our date, and that’s mostly because you were there. Christmas shopping two days before Christmas, in London, with Cora, was a nightmare! I don’t know if it’s the sheer volume of people, or the time of year, but there has to be a better way. There needs to be a way that I can order everything at home and then have it delivered to my door without ever leaving my house.  I spent two hours in a Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes. Two hours. It bears repeating.  TWO HOURS, STILES! TWO! 

Sorry.

Anyway it was all worth it in the end, because Cora enjoyed it, and while it doesn’t really make up for much between us, it’s something, I hope.

What did you used to cook with your mom? Pippy, our house elf, does all the cooking at our house, I’ve never seen either of my parents so much as boil water, so I’m curious. You don’t have to write about it if you don’t want to.

I miss you,

Derek

 

-

 

Dear Derek,

I don’t mind writing about it, hell, I brought it up. She used to get me to help with baking. Cupcakes and pies and stuff like that. I guess it was probably easier to keep my interest if there was something sweet at the end of it as a reward.

I used to stand on a chair in the kitchen and help her measure stuff out (inaccurately) and stir stuff (inadequately) and decorate stuff (ineptly). I don’t remember it as clearly as I want to. I worry about that sometimes, you know? That soon I'll have forgotten all these little parts of her.

My mom’s death is, well, it’s a _thing._ She had dementia. We lost her slowly, over about two years. By the end she didn’t recognize me or my dad. I told myself that it would be a relief when she went because so much of her had already gone that it didn’t feel like I had much left to lose. That was just bullshit though. I mean, she’s my mom, right? However prepared I thought I was going to be, I wasn’t. I wasn’t at all, and honestly, I’m not sure I’ll ever be over it.

 ~~After hearing about yo~~ Now though I look back and think. At least I had her. While she was here, and capable of it, she was here for _me_ . She took time for me. I was important to her and I always _knew_ that and never doubted it. ~~I hope that doesn’t sound bad- I don’t mean.~~

I guess that just makes it worse, how bad things have gotten between my dad and me. I don’t know. She’d be really upset if she could see us now, but maybe you’re right. Maybe the cooking thing is her bringing us together even though she isn't here any more. I hope that’s true.

Argh. I’ve just spent ages rambling on about my family problems. This whole letter is depressing.

Sorry,

Stiles

 

P.S. Two hours in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes sounds fucking awesome. One day Cora and I will meet and it will be the beginning of an epic bromance for the ages.

P.P.S  I’m sorry if I offended you. You know I don’t really have a filter. ~~I didn’t mean to imply anything about your parents or your relationship with them.~~ I realize not all families are the same.

 

-

 

Dear Stiles,

Firstly, your mother sounds amazing. It’s wonderful that you have such great memories of her. Don’t ever apologize for talking about her with me, I’m always interested and ready to talk with you about her or just to listen.

Secondly, you didn’t offend me. I’m aware that my family is unusual. Growing up I didn’t know any better. It was only when I went to Hogwarts that I realized how different we really were, how messed up it all was. Most children don’t see more of their family house-elf than they do of their parents or live in a crumbling mansion on the Derbyshire moors. It isn't all bad. I did have Laura. We used to play games together all the time, epic adventures that went on for days where we'd pretend the endless rooms were part of an ancient kingdom that we were travelling across on a special quest. She was always Queen Bertha of Fairyland (she used to really love the name Bertha, I don’t know why). I played all the other roles from Fang, her loyal wolfhound, to Grizelda, the evil giantess who wanted to steal her magic ring. Even as I write this I realize I am giving you ammunition. Use it wisely. With great power comes great responsibility. (By which I mean, Laura will kill you if you tease her about this).

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is- I’m kind of okay with how my family is, or at least, I’m trying to make my peace with it. When I was younger I wished everything was different. I wished my parents had more time for me, I wished they’d notice what Peter was like, but once I got to Hogwarts I got to make my own life, my own friends, and that helped.

I mean, I’ll always love them and I think they do care about me and if they ever want to be a part of my life properly then there will always be a place for them. But I’ve got my real family, Kira, Laura, Cora and you, so it's okay. That's what I tell myself when I'm back here, anyway, and I think it's slowly becoming true.

Yours

Derek

 

P.S. First Google now bromance? Are you making words up to mess with me? Either way, now you’ve pointed it out I think it’s best for all concerned if you and Cora never meet. Sorry, and all that, but I’m sure you understand.

P.P.S. Also I meant to ask before, clownfish? Really?

 

-

 

Derek,

You think of me as family? Does that make us kissing cousins?

PLEASE SAY YES

Stiles

Xxxxxxxxx

 

P.S. Cora and I are destined to be together. You cannot keep us apart.

P.P.S. My research on clownfish has changed the way I view Finding Nemo forever. Even as I write this I realize it will probably mean nothing to you, but I want you to know that it happened, and that it was important.

P.P.P.S. Say hi to Queen Bertha for me.

 

**-**

 

Stiles,

I see you’re planning to take the high road with Laura. Good to know. I’d practice some defensive spells if I were you.

Also, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable over the whole 'family' thing. I've been thinking about it for a while now. And I think maybe there are two types of family, the ones we are born with, and the ones we choose. For a long time I've been twisting myself into knots trying to be the person I thought my family wanted me to be. I keep trying to live up to all their expectations and I never can. The only one of them who ever seems to like me is Laura (and now Cora as well, I hope). Then when I started at Hogwarts I met Kira. I can't tell you what a difference her friendship made to me. I think she rescued me. She made me realize that I was likable, she saw the good and the bad and stood by me anyway. You might call that friendship, and I guess it is, but people use that word so casually that somehow it doesn't feel like enough. Anyway, now I don't just have Kira and Laura, I have you too. Everything we've shared in the last few weeks has changed my life in ways I can't begin to express. So when I say I think of you as family, what I mean is, as long as you choose to be with me, I will always choose to be with you.

Is that okay?

Yours

Derek

 

-

 

Der,

Aw, man! I can’t believe my boyfriend is such a giant goofball. Yes, it’s okay, you colossal dork.

love,

Stiles x

 

P.S. That’s still a yes to making out though, right?

P.P.S. Seriously though, I _really, really_ want to  write more, but my dad just got back from work and I have to go.

P.P.P.S. I choose you too! (In case that's not obvious.)

 

 

-


	21. Chapter 21

Derek’s sitting on the couch with the notebook open in front of him. He’s been reading and re-reading Stiles’ last entry.

The one signed _love, Stiles._

Love.

_Love._

The thought of it makes him feel warm all over. And he knows it’s stupid to read too much into it. Stiles wrote it in a rush. He probably didn't give it a second thought, didn't mean it _that_ way. Derek can't help focusing on it though, he just _can't._

“What are you grinning about, loser?” Laura asks, ruffling his hair as she walks past.

He snaps his notebook shut, blushing furiously. “Nothing.”

“Aww, are you writing to your boyfriend.” He swipes at her and she dodges him expertly. “Oh, Stiles! I wuv you!”

“Go. Away. Laura.”

She dances out of the room making ridiculous kissy faces at him, and he scowls after her. _Fucking Laura._ He regrets ever telling her about the notebook.

“Who’s Stiles?”

He nearly jumps out of his skin. Cora has appeared from nowhere and she’s staring at him with pursed lips and narrowed eyes.

“S-Stiles?”

“Yes, is he your boyfriend?”

“Uh- y-yes. He is.”

“Is he nice?”

“Uh-” He hesitates for a second, because there are lots of words he could use to describe Stiles, but he isn't sure _nice_ is one of them. “I think you’d like him,” he says truthfully.

“Is he going to visit over Christmas?”

Derek shakes his head. “No. He lives too f-far away. He’s from America.”

“Oh.” She sinks down next to him on the sofa and kicks her heels against it, staring off into the distance, her forehead wrinkled in a frown. “So can I talk to him?”

“I, um, well, maybe one day.” He smiles a little to himself. “He wants to meet you.”

She glances across at him, “You told him about me?”

“Of c-course.”

She almost smiles then and ducks her head, hair falling in front of her face.

“He wants to go with you to Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes,” he continues.

“Really?” she says, looking up sharply. “Does he like practical jokes too?”

“One time he set dung bombs off in the library,” Derek confides. “Another time he summoned a swamp in the middle of Professor Harris’ potions class and got detention for a month.”

She bites her lip. “He sounds like fun.”

“He is.”

She nudges his arm, “Do you miss him?”

He nods. “V-Very much, but it’s okay.” He nudges her arm right back. “I’ve got you haven’t I? And Laura.”

“That’s true.” She almost smiles again, and his heart breaks a little, because he can’t help but wonder if she’d be smiling more, if she’d be less prickly and reserved if he had been a better brother. Her face is already crumpling into a frown. “Mother says Peter will be here tomorrow.”

Derek swallows. “I kn-know. It’s fine.”

“No, it isn’t.” She scooches closer then, leans her head against his shoulder and sighs, like she’s trying to comfort him. Her soft, dark hair tickles his chin. He wraps an arm around her and squeezes tight.

“Would you like to play Wizard Chess?” he asks. She nods.

It turns out she’s surprisingly good, beating him easily. Laura wanders back in towards the end of their game and watches the last few minutes.

“Okay, Cor,” she says, as Cora puts Derek in checkmate. “Time for a real challenge.” His sisters set up the pieces and settle in for a long game. Derek sits and watches them, the fire burning high in the grate as the winter night closes in around them. After Cora has beaten Laura twice they decide to try something else, and spend the rest of the evening bickering goodnaturedly over Gobstones and then Exploding Snap. It’s fun. More fun than he ever expected to have at home. Later that evening Pippy brings them all sandwiches and hot chocolate for supper, and Laura regales Cora with the saga of Kira's victory in their epic snowball fight; a story that makes Cora laugh so hard she snorts hot chocolate through her nose.

And Derek thinks that he may not have Stiles here, or Kira, but this- this is good too.

 

-

 

He wasn’t lying in his letter to Stiles, when he said the thought about that night in the Astronomy Tower a lot. Stiles had joked that his hand might fall off, but Derek worries he’s in very real danger of experiencing friction burns on his dick. There are things he want to do, things he wants to say, but he isn't going to write them in the notebook, not when anyone might find it, not when Peter is visiting tomorrow. Peter, who has been known to root through Derek’s things like he owns them.

Later that night though, he lies there thoughts filled with nothing but Stiles, Stiles, Stiles, and one hand snaking down to touch himself. It doesn’t take much now, because he wants, he wants all the time. It wasn’t too bad before he knew what it was like to kiss Stiles, to have him pressed up against him warm and hard, the sharp lines of his hip, the firm give of his muscles supple and strong, jumping under Derek’s touch. He wants to map him, wants to unwrap him and lay him out, memorize every detail. He wants more than fumbled groping in a cramped train carriage or chafing against his jeans on the cold stone floor of the Astronomy Tower. 

Afterwards he cleans himself off as best he can and then curls up in bed and shuts his eyes and tries to lose himself to sleep.

And then, just like always, he wishes Stiles were there too.

 

-

 

On Christmas Eve Stiles wakes up in the afternoon to an empty apartment. He wraps his blanket about himself and pads to the kitchen, he makes himself a coffee, then pours himself a bowl of Cap’n Crunch. There’s only a tiny dribble of milk left, so he stands by the sink and eats it dry, watching cars go by from the tiny kitchen window.

Every year, he comes back here for Christmas, and every year it seems unbelievable to him that it _is_ Christmas. When he was a kid it used to mean something. The weekend before Christmas they’d devote a whole day to making their house look amazing, festive. They had a tree and a million Christmas lights, his dad used to spend ages decorating the house. His mom used to make cinnamon cookies and sing along to Christmas songs on the radio. Then they’d decorate the tree together. They haven’t done that since his mom got sick. At first he assumed they would get there one day, but as the years passed, and the distance between he and his dad grew, he gave up thinking it would happen.

For years Christmas Day has been just another day to get through. They wake up late, watch TV, eat microwave dinners and wait for it to be over. For the last two years they haven’t even bought each other gifts. Their relationship is so fragile now, stretched paper thin by grief and a slow, silent heartache. There’s a hundred things they’ve not said to each other over they years, and each one cuts him like a knife. If they’re ever going to fix this, if they’re ever going to have even part of what they had, one of them needs to _say_ something. One of them needs to _do_ something, to take the first step, and maybe the second, and the third. To keep taking steps until they find each other again. If nothing else, Stiles needs to know whether there’s anything left of their relationship to be saved. He scrapes the last of the cereal from his bowl and dumps it in the sink so he can wash it later, and that's when his when his mom’s old recipe cards catch his eye. And that makes him think, maybe there is _something_ he can do. A grand gesture. Something to try and show his dad that he’s still in this. He rifles through the recipe cards until he finds the one he’s looking for and considers it for a long moment. For a long while he's been too scared to do or say anything, and watched his relationship with his dad wilt in front of him. Truthfully, he isn't sure where his new found courage has come from, maybe he's getting older, maybe it's the confidence he's found since he started dating Derek. He can't say for sure.

What he’s considering is probably not a good idea. Maybe it’s the worst idea he’s ever had, but he knows has to _do_ something.

He has to _try_. He's let things slide for long enough, he can’t let fear and apathy win. He won't.

He places the card on the counter and disappears off to get showered and dressed.

The only benefit to living in their tiny apartment is that he can walk to the shops, which is good, because his dad has their only car. Stiles doesn’t have much money, but he searches the apartment and scrapes together some loose change. Then he walks to the grocery store and _just_ manages to make it stretch to flour, eggs, milk, butter, sugar and cinnamon.

When he gets back, he places the ingredients out on the counter for later and then busies himself with finding the Christmas decorations. He doesn’t really know where to start looking for them, or even if his dad kept them, but he figures it’s best to start with the closet where he found his mom’s cooking stuff.

It’s cramped, crammed full of boxes and boxes of stuff that used to be in the attic of their old family home. He starts pulling them out one by one taking them through and checking each one as he goes to see what’s in there. Half an hour in and he’s making slow progress. He keeps getting side-tracked finding things he'd forgotten about years ago. Old toys and books, a bag full of his old baby clothes and a box full of photo albums containing pictures of his mom and dad as they grew up, pictures of a family he’s never really met, grandparents that died long before he was born. He even finds his parents wedding album, which he puts to one side. He isn't ready to look through that and see his parents faces smiling out at him, young, in love and unsuspecting.

He can’t resist flicking through his own baby pictures though. It hurts, but it’s a good hurt. Pictures of his mom holding him, smiling up at the camera with bright brown eyes. His dad teaching him how to ride a bike, his first birthday, that camping holiday they took when he was eight. The photographs are fading, their colors muted, little moments of a life he barely remembers suspended time, silent and still. There are no moving figures in muggle pictures.

He can’t look at them for long. He closes the book and puts it back with the rest, gets back on with the job of pulling out box after box, and each one feels a little heavier as the memories pile up around him. His PeeWee Baseball stuff, the science project he did in elementary school that won first prize, the picture he drew of himself piloting a flying ice-cream truck after his first grade teacher asked him what he wanted to be when he grew up.

It’s all here, carefully stashed away. Waiting.

It has to mean something, right?

If his dad didn’t care, if there were no hope, if things weren’t fixable… he wouldn’t have kept it when they moved.

He swallows hard, wipes his nose on his sleeve and goes to make himself another coffee. He stands by the kitchen window, sipping his drink, blinking furiously and resolutely does _not_ cry. He wishes he could call Derek or Scott and actually talk to someone. It seems ridiculous that he can’t, but there it is. It’s probably for the best. Even if he writes to Derek, there’s no guarantee he’ll write back straight away. There in different fucking timezones at the moment for Circe’s sake.

He chugs the rest of his coffee and makes his way back to the closet. It doesn’t take too long after that. He find a battered looking cardboard box full of baubles, tinsel and and a snarl of ancient, multi-colored Christmas tree lights. Behind that he uncovers an old, artificial tree that he barely remembers from _years_ ago. He drags it out and stares at it, head cocked to one side. It smells musty and the branches look a little scraggy, but once the decorations are on it might be okay. He drags it into their little living room and then brings the box of decorations through too.

He stares at the hoard of memories he’s amassed in their tiny living room and decides he’ll prepare the cookies first then try and put the tree up while they’re baking in the oven.

His Mom’s recipe card is on the counter, where he left it. It’s just a small card, but it’s covered in his mom’s neat handwriting and decorated with doodles of holly and little notes. _(Recipe is for 20 cookies but if you make 18 and only leave them in for 8 minutes they are chewy and soft in middle. Add an extra half tsp of cinnamon. Stiles likes them best with a drizzle of icing.)_ There’s a smear of something dried on one corner, probably cookie batter.

He has the ingredients, but when he checks the kitchen cupboards they don’t have much to cook with. It takes him five minutes of hunting to find a decent sized bowl and something that will serve as a cookie sheet. He washes both of them, because neither look like they’ve been used since time began. Finally he digs out an old set of kitchen scales that definitely look like they’ve seen better days. He reads through his mom’s recipe one more time.  Turns the oven on to preheat and then measures out the ingredients one by one and carefully stirs them together. It isn't that difficult. The dough is tacky and stiff. He divides it into eighteen equal portions, spreads them out neatly on the cookie sheet and places them in the oven and makes a note of the time. Then he sets about trying to untangle the Christmas tree lights.

He isn't prepared for it, when it hits. Perhaps he should have been. He’s spent the morning going through his old things, stirring up memories and picking at scars that should have healed, but somehow nothing hits him harder than the scent of those cookies, warm and homey, wafting through the bare apartment.

He can almost see her soft, dark hair, bright brown eyes, her snub nose, her wide, happy smile. She had warm hands, and a laugh that made everyone in the room laugh too. And there must have been things about her that weren’t perfect. Nobody’s perfect. Everyone has flaws, he knows that on some intellectual level, but honestly, right now he can’t remember one. All he thinks, all he _knows_ , is how much better, how much easier the last few years would have been if she’d been here to hold it all together. If they could have all been a family, the way they were meant to be.

He’s missed her so much, for so long, but in that moment, with the smell of those cookies in the air he feels like she could walk through the door any moment and somehow, he wouldn't be surprised. She isn't going to. He never gets to have that again. The wave of grief that hits him winds him and the Christmas tree lights clatter to the floor.

He crouches down, scrunching his eyes shut and tries to focus on breathing. Counting his breaths, in and out, willing himself to calm down.

He isn't sure how long he’s like that, it could be minutes it could be half an hour, it must be a while though, because the smoke alarm starts beeping angrily. He stumbles to the oven, opens the door and then steps back, half choking as black smoke billows everywhere. He makes to grab the cookie sheet out of the oven, not even thinking about oven gloves and then reels back swearing, doubled over in pain. He finds a tea towel and wraps it round his good hand, shaking violently he pulls the cookie sheet out and dumps them on the counter before turning to the sink, shoving his hand under the faucet and turning the tap on till the water runs cold.

Bitter tears sting his eyes, but he swallows them down and tries to remember to breathe, tries to will himself calm and not focus on the complete fucking disaster he’s made of everything. There are half opened boxes everywhere, clutter covers every surface and the kitchen reeks, charred and burnt.

This was stupid. This was a crazy fucking idea. He sort of manages to make one meal without killing his dad and he thinks, well, what exactly? That he can fix things? That tomorrow they’ll sit down and eat Christmas dinner together, because of a few crummy decorations and a tray of cookies? What is he doing?

He swipes angrily at his eyes and swallows, hard. He feels so fucking foolish.

His hand pulses angrily, raw and painful despite the ice cold water pouring over it. Maybe he should just accept it, he isn't going to be close to his dad again. There’s too much between them and maybe, maybe he should just cut his losses.

He can’t though, even the thought makes him feel sick.

He sighs bitterly.

The least he can do is clear up the mess he’s made. Put the boxes back, open the windows and air the house before his dad returns. And he will, if he can just get his hand to stop throbbing.

Even as he thinks it, there’s the sound of a key in the lock, and his stomach drops like a stone. For one mad moment he thinks about running to his bedroom, grabbing his wand and vanishing everything, but there’s not enough time, and anyway, he never does magic at home. Ever. He feels guilty even thinking about it.

He hears his dad’s footsteps heavy along the corridor, hears the beleaguered sigh his dad makes when he sees the open closet, the sniff, the hissed, “What the hell?”

Stiles closes his eyes, his jaw clenches shut, every muscle in his body tensed as he hears the door to their shitty living room-come-kitchen.

“What’s going on?”

“Hey, Dad,” he says weakly. He doesn’t turn around, keeps his back turned, because he can’t look at his dad’s face right now. He just can’t.

“Stiles,” his dad repeats, “What’s going on?”

“Just you know,” Stiles hulks a shoulder. “Administering a bit of first aid on myself. Turns out I’m not much of a cook after all.” His voice wobbles dangerously and he risks turning his head a little to glance at his dad.

He’s standing there his jaw slack taking in the clutter, the smell, the mess. He looks pale, like he’s seen a ghost, but when he catches Stiles eye he seems to come to himself.

“Stiles? What the hell? Are you okay?” He’s across the room and in Stiles’ space in a matter of steps.

“It’s fine- I’m fine. Just a light burn.”

His dad leans over to take a look at his hand. “A wha-? Jesus! What happened?”

“I tried to- um- take something out the oven, but without the- uh- oven gloves.”

His dad winces in pain at the thought of it. “Do we need to go anywhere, the hospital? Will you be okay?”

Stiles pulls his hand out from under the water and examines it closely. “Yeah- I think so.” It still hurts, but it’s probably just skin.

“Okay, stay put. I think we’ve got some aloe vera somewhere.” His dad disappears off and returns a moment later clutching a little pot, he unscrews the lid and hands it over and Stiles busies himself applying it to the raw skin. His dad looks around absently, taking in the tree, the decorations, the charred husks that should have been cookies.

“So,” he says eventually, “What were you trying to cook?”

“Uh- I-” Stiles fumbles, not sure what to say. It doesn’t matter. His dad’s eye catches the cinnamon cookie recipe card still sitting out on the counter, and Stiles could have lived a thousand years without seeing that look on his dad’s face, like he’s been punched in the gut.

“It was stupid,” Stiles says quickly, “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry, you didn’t need to come back and see all of this. I was going to clean up before you got back, but then I-uh- burnt myself. I’ll get right on it though.” He starts forward.

“Don’t.” His dad reaches out and catches his arm, holding it tight and Stiles stops dead.

Neither of them say anything for a long moment. The grip he has on Stiles’ arm is almost painful.

“Dad?”

“Don’t, just- just leave it for now.”

“But-”

“Leave it. Go and sit down, Stiles. I’ll sort it out.”

His dad tips the charred remains of the cookies into the trash, throws the doors and windows wide to air the apartment and then putters about the kitchen washing up. Stiles sits on the couch, cradling his burnt hand and trying not to freak out. Mostly he fails. He’s managed to convince himself that he’s going to contact Derek and ask if his mom could use her ministry contacts to arrange a portkey for him. He figures he can either go back to Hogwarts early, or maybe stay over at Derek’s if his parents agree. He’s just mentally preparing the letter he’s going to write to Derek when his dad sits down next to him and places two steaming hot cups of tea on the coffee table in front of him.

“You take sugar, right?”

“Uh- yeah. Just one.”

His dad nods. “Thought so.”

Stiles gnaws his lip, ignoring the tea. “I’m sorry about the mess.”

His dad sighs, “Will you stop apologizing, kid? Please?”

“Okay, sorry, it’s just- I got all your stuff out-”

“It’s your stuff too!” his dad snaps.

“Uh-” Stiles’ mouth works soundlessly, he’s not sure what to say.

“It’s your stuff too,” his dad repeats, softer, pained. “So stop acting like it isn’t.” His shoulders slump in defeat and the couch creaks as he takes a seat next to Stiles. He sighs deeply, reaches forward and picks up his mug. He cradles it in his hands, but doesn’t take a sip. Stiles doesn’t know what to say, he doesn’t know what words to speak into this uneasy silence. He doesn’t know how to make things better, but he wants to. Oh god, he _wants_ to.

“I just miss her,” he says, because it’s true. Because, when all's said and done, maybe that’s the root cause of all the problems he and his dad have. That’s certainly where their problems started, and not even with her death, but with the shared grief of losing her piecemeal and not being able to stop it. Nobody else knew her like they did, nobody else can truly appreciate the full magnitude of that loss. All the hundreds of little ways that she filled up the cracks in their lives, only to have to sit there, helpless while the life and memory slowly drain from her, until only the fractures remained.

“I miss her too,” his dad murmurs, “every damn day.” He takes a sip of his tea. And Stiles can’t remember the last time they talked about her directly. It’s been years, before he went to Hogwarts even. He swipes at his nose and sniffs. “So what were you going to make?” his dad asks, even though he must know. He must have guessed. He saw the damn recipe card.

“The uh- cinnamon cookies. You know, the ones she used to make every year.”

His dad nods, takes another sip of his drink. Still not looking at Stiles. “You can’t magic up some cookies then?” he asks nodding his head at the disaster in the kitchen.

“It-uh- doesn’t work that way,” Stiles admits, heart in mouth, because if his mother’s death is a topic they never discuss, Stiles’ magic is absolutely forbidden. It’s locked away in a secret vault, that’s hidden in a pit of poisonous snakes and guarded by a Norwegian Ridgeback and neither of them touch it. Ever. They barely talked about it since Stiles received his Hogwarts letter accompanied by a visit from the Headmistress to explain that a) magic was real and b) Stiles was being offered a place at one of the most prestigious magical schools in the world.

“Really?”

“Yeah- I can’t create food out of nothing. I could multiply it if we had some already but-” he shrugs, “I kind of wanted to make them properly. The way she would have done.”

His dad freezes then, cup halfway to his mouth. Then slowly, deliberately, he drains it. “She liked cooking with you,” he says, “She’d get a kick out of knowing you were trying to make stuff again.”

“Huh,” Stiles croaks, his voice sticking in his throat.

His dad slaps him on the shoulder and stands. “We should crack on,” he says, “if we’re going to get this place decorated in time.” Stiles gapes up at him and his dad scrubs a hand over the back of his neck and winces. “I mean, if you still want to-”

“No, I do. I do want to.”

They decorate the Christmas tree. Well, his dad does, and Stiles helps as best he can once he’s raided their first aid kit and bandaged his hand. His dad wrestles the tree into submission whilst Stiles tries to untangle the lights. Then they root through the boxes, digging out old glass baubles, ancient bits of tinsel, beads and ribbon and placing each one carefully on the tree. They find the salt dough decorations that his mom made with him one year. He can only _just_ remember standing on a chair pushed up against the counter and cutting out a star, a reindeer, a sleigh and a tree, but here they are, a little soft and worn, but still here.

They don’t talk much. There’s nothing to say. Except every time Stiles hangs something on the tree it feeds something within him, soothes the part of him that’s been raging at the world, seething and angry, since his mom got ill. It’s a strange and unexpected exorcism.

When they finally finish his dad switches the Christmas tree lights on and Stiles kills the main lights. The entire room just glows with the light from that tree. And Stiles’ heart feels bruised and tender, but whole in a way it hasn’t for the longest time.

They both stand there, staring at it, lost in their own thoughts.

“I missed this,” Stiles says, because he’s not quite at the place yet where he can say _I missed you,_ even though that’s what he means.

His dad takes a deep, shaky breath. “Me too, son. Me too.”

 

-

 

That evening when they've finally said their good-nights and gone to their own rooms, Stiles sits at his desk, hands trembling, overwhelmed with emotion. He needs to talk to somebody. He needs to tell someone. He needs to tell Derek. He grabs his notebook and his quill, and starts to write.  


_Derek,_

_I need to go to bed, because it’s, like, 3AM here, and it’s Christmas Day, but I wanted to tell you: I finally talked to my dad tonight, like, we spoke for hours..._  
  
  
He bites his lip, staring down at the words. His heart is so full, he isn't sure how to make Derek understand exactly what has happened, what it _means_ to him, but he's going to try. He starts to write.

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter is a real dick in this chapter. You have been warned.
> 
> **also I'm going to point out that GB is about seven hours ahead of California, so when this chapter starts Derek has not received Stiles last journal entry**

When Derek wakes on Christmas Eve after a restless night’s sleep, it’s with a familiar feeling of dread looming over him and one word thumping through his head like a bass line, disrupting all his other thoughts. Peter. Peter. Peter.

He lays in bed for half an hour arguing with himself. Berating himself. Trying desperately not to panic.

Peter isn’t worth his time. Peter is a bully. How Peter treats him says far more about him than it does about Derek. That’s all there is to it.

Logically he knows all of this. And yet.

There’s a world of difference between knowing it and living it, and he can’t seem to transition from one to the other.

He should be over this by now.

He should be better than this.

He isn't six fucking years old any more.

But just the thought that he'll come face to face with Peter today sends all Derek’s heartfelt, well reasoned arguments flying from his mind. And he knows he should be able to defend himself, but when confronted with the reality of his uncle, Derek’s carefully crafted defences crumble to dust in front of him.

He knows from bitter experience that when he sees Peter later he’ll be left gaping like a fish, heart pounding, palms sweating, unable to articulate a single word.

He hates it, but there it is.

He cares what Peter thinks about him. He always has and maybe he always will.

It’s a bitter pill to swallow.

Sighing, he reaches under his mattress and pulls out his notebook to read Stiles’ last letter. The one where he’d called him a giant goofball.  _I love you_ and _I choose you too_ , he’d written and reading it now makes something warm unfurl in Derek’s chest. Stiles chooses him. Stiles sees good in him. Somehow he needs to find a way to hang on to that and stop letting Peter get to him.

 

-

 

Later, the three Hale siblings are curled up in the second best living room. Derek and Cora are playing gobstones and bickering gently with each other. Laura is curled up on the couch reading a book. All things considered, it hasn't been a bad morning, given how much Derek’s dreading what’s to come.

Christmas at Hale Hall is traditionally an awkward, stilted affair, which is strange, because on the surface it should be picture perfect. The whole house is lavishly decorated, every room filled with fresh garlands of holly and ivy. There’s always an enormous Christmas tree with exquisite glass ornaments, twinkling lights and beautifully wrapped presents piled high beneath it. At Christmas there’s never a smudge of dirt or a hint of anything out of place, like they’re constantly prepared to be a center spread in Witch Weekly. Except rather than the vacant eyes and fixed smiles that he’s seen on the witches and wizards in those magazines, they have sullen, grumpy Hales squabbling with each other.

“Feet off the couch, Laura,” his mother tuts, striding into the room. She’s carrying a poinsettia in an ornate vase which she places on an antique table. She stands there and eyes it speculatively, then adjusts it position slightly.  “Derek, try not to slouch, it’s bad for your posture.”

Derek isn't sure about having kids on general principle (and he’s too young to consider it seriously, anyway), but he’s promised himself that if he ever does he’s going to buy old, practical furniture, the sort of stuff where, if someone accidentally spills pumpkin juice on it, it won’t be the end of the world. He’s also going to let them sit on said furniture however they want, on principle.

His mother adjusts the vase again, oblivious to the dark looks her children are casting her way. “Supper will be served at six tonight, if I can get Pippy to- oh for goodness sake, Cora! What are you wearing, child? You look positively unkempt. Go back upstairs and try again. People will be arriving soon..”

“It’s only Peter,” Cora says.

“That’s enough, young lady. Go to your room and get changed into something clean. Maybe that nice pink dress that your Great Aunt Hilda sent you for your birthday.”

Cora gets to her feet and the glance she casts at her mother as she leaves is _mutinous_ . As far as Derek can tell she’s rarely ever out of sweatpants and t-shirts. Their mother isn’t looking at her though, she’s already turned her attention back to Derek and Laura.

“As for you two,” she says, “I hope I’m making  myself clear when I say I expect you to be polite and respectful towards your uncle. He thinks the world of you both and your attitude towards him is appalling.” This last comment is mostly directed at Laura, who rolls her eyes and turns her head back to her book with a derisive snort. “I’m serious, young lady. The last time he was here I was so embarrassed and ashamed. I won’t have it happen again. There will be consequences if I think for one second you are being rude, are we clear?” She doesn't wait for a reply, but sweeps out of the room in a cloud of expensive perfume and parental disappointment.

Derek and Laura glance at each other. “Consequences,” Laura mutters, with a short, bitter laugh, “She’ll have to remember we’re here first.” Derek sighs. “What? Don’t be like that, bro. You know I’m right. One owl from the ministry saying they need her and she’ll be gone. It’s an empty threat.”

It’s true, but not helpful. Besides, for once Derek’s in agreement with his mother. “I d-don’t want any trouble with P-Peter,” Derek says, “So try not to s-start anything.” Laura shakes her head derisively. “I’m serious,” Derek says, “I just want to get through the next couple of days and then he’ll go home and we can f-forget about him. Okay?”

“Yeah, yeah. I hear ya, baby bro. Don’t make any waves. Don’t rock the boat. Let’s all get together and play nice with the sociopathic bastard.” She gets up off the couch and tucks her book under one arm. “I’ll be good if he is. If he starts something though,” she jabs a finger at Derek, “I’m going to finish it.”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose and scrunches his eyes shut, pained. It's not as if he doesn’t appreciate Laura’s support, but it’s never as simple as she seems to think. When she’s rude and dismissive to Peter in front of their parents all it does is bring their parents down on Peter’s side and that, that makes everything worse.

 

-

 

The day is brutally cold, slate grey clouds hang low in the sky, heavy with the promise of snow that stubbornly refuses to fall. As the afternoon wears on, an angry wind whines across the moors, whistles through the gables and moans down the chimney causing the fireplace in the dining room to smoke copiously, much to his mother’s chagrin. Derek spends most of the day haunting his bedroom, and moping. The only bright spot is when an owl from Kira arrives, it’s mainly her complaining about her being bored and fed up with her parents while simultaneously panicking because she’s not heard back about her job application. It sounds like her Christmas kind of sucks too, and Derek sits down right away to compose a letter reassuring her she’s not alone. That done, he tries to distract himself by doing some work for The Beacon. Laura’s idea of doing features on each of the seventh year students has been successful. Erica, in particular has a real gift for making people open up about themselves and manages to write it up in a way that is fun and insightful. Derek goes through her last two interviews, one with Garrett, the other with Harley. and tries to edit them so they’ll be ready for publication when he returns to Hogwarts. It kills a couple of hours, but then it’s done, and he’s back to worrying about Peter again.

It’s six o’clock in the evening when Peter arrives, it’s dark outside and bitterly cold. Derek’s sitting by the fire in the second best living room with Laura, playing exploding snap, he’s losing badly and his eyebrows are a little singed. When the door knocker sounds they look at each other. Laura frowns.

“Well, here comes the dickhead,” she mutters.

“Laura,” he hisses.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll be civil, I promise.”

A moment later their mother and Peter sweep into the room. Derek hasn’t seem him in months, but he still looks the same as ever. Immaculately dressed in expensive clothes, hair perfectly styled, that bored, slightly superior expression he always seems to wear. Laura gets to her feet, a wide, fake, smile plastered across her face. “Peter,” she says, “Merry Christmas.” She claps him on the arm and his mouth twists in a mocking smile.

“Laura, always such a pleasure,” he drawls. “Look at you! Is that a new haircut? Lovely! I think it makes your face look _much_ slimmer.” It’s typical Peter, a barb disguised as a compliment. Cleverly designed to sting without attracting their parent's attention.

Laura’s eyes narrow dangerously, and for one moment Derek thinks she’s going to lash out, but then her expression morphs into one of absolute concern. “Sorry, I think, I think you’ve got a little something- just-” she gestures to his face, “there-”

Peter’s lifts his hand instinctively, running it over his face searching for the blemish.

“I can’t see anything,” says their mother, peering at him.

“Really?” Laura says, feigning confusion. “I swear he had something on his nose. Maybe it’s a trick of the light.”

Peter’s hand drops to his side immediately. His nose has never been quite the same shape since Laura broke it all those years ago, and there’s no doubt it’s a sore spot for him. When he looks at her again his eyes are glitter coldly, and his mouth curves upwards in a sharp smile. Derek’s stomach sinks.

“Well I can’t see anything,” his mother says happily, oblivious to the tension in the room. “Now Derek, aren’t you going to say hello to your uncle?”

Derek stumbles to his feet, blinking nervously. He can feel his glasses slipping down his nose and his palms are clammy with sweat. “P-P-Peter,” he manages, “g-good to s-see you.”

“Derek,” he says, “I see you’re still-” but he never gets to finish the sentence.  Cora barrels into the room. “Uncle Peter!” she screeches, throwing herself at him and hugging him tight. She’s wearing the dreaded pale pink dress and her hair is tied back in a messy ponytail.

“Cora, be careful,” his mother scolds. “You can’t climb all over people like that, besides, you’ll crumple that dress.”

“It’s fine,” Peter says, smiling down at Cora’s upturned face. “We’re old friends aren’t we?”

Cora nods enthusiastically, and it’s so different from how she’s been since he and Laura arrived back that Derek gapes. There’s no trace of the sulky, sullen girl that he’s been coaxing out of her shell all week. It’s as if she’s just disappeared.  For one moment he wonders if he knows her at all.

“Well,” Peter says, one hand curling possessively around Cora’s shoulders, “who wants to give me a hand taking my things upstairs, hmm?”

“I’ll do it, Uncle Peter!” Cora says waving her hand enthusiastically, “Let me!” She grabs him by the cuff of his robe and starts dragging him from the room.

“Okay, okay” he says, “I’m coming.” He catches Derek’s eye and shoots him a vicious, triumphant grin, and Derek swallows, hard.

“You’re in your usual room,” his mother calls after them. “You see,” she says,  turning back to face Laura and Derek, “Isn’t it better when we all get along? Laura, that’s the sort of behaviour I expect from now on. Derek, straighten up, you’re all hunched in on yourself again, it’s bad for your back. Now, I have a letter from Albert Rookwood that needs to be answered immediately. I’ll see you two at dinner.” And with that she’s gone.

Derek blinks dully, trying to process the last few minutes.

“An urgent owl on Christmas Eve,” Laura mutters, “What a fucking surprise.”

“C-Cora,” Derek manages.

“I know, right?” Laura says with a laugh. “Who knew the runt was such a good actor?”

Derek shifts uncomfortably and says nothing. Sometimes it seems like the only one who isn’t good at handling Peter is him. Next to him Laura gives an involuntary shudder and he glances over to her in a silent question. “Sorry,” she says, “my skin is still crawling from it's brief contact with that oily fuckwit. I think I’m going to go and wash my hands. Or maybe a shower. Yeah, a shower. That sounds good.”

Okay, he thinks, maybe he isn’t the only one.

 

-

 

The atmosphere at dinner on Christmas Eve is strained. Since they’ve been home the three Hale siblings have eaten every meal together, but tonight their parents and their uncle join them. Derek ends up sitting between his mother and Peter and he isn't sure how that happened, but they spend most of the evening talking over his head like he isn’t there at all. His father is grilling Laura about her knowledge of the first wizarding war, which quickly devolves into a lecture about the limited scope of Bathilda Bagshot’s A History of Magic. A book that apparently only takes into account the experiences of witches and wizards and doesn’t even mention the effect of the war on goblins, house elves or centaurs.

“It’s not as if it’s a bad book per se, the individual events are handled adequately enough,” he says. “It’s just that we exist in harmony with our magical brethren, it’s a symbiotic relationship, at it’s best a mutualistic one. What impacts us impacts them and vice versa. Bagshot totally fails to take account of that, it’s a very wizard centric book unfortunately.” He pauses to take a mouthful of his food, chewing thoughtfully and turns to his wife, “This food is quite wonderful, darling. Really top notch.”

His mother smiles graciously, “Thank-you.”

“I’ll thank _Pippy_ for you too, shall I?” Laura murmurs acidly.

Her father blinks at her, confused, “Pippy? Oh yes, Pippy! Most definitely, by all means.”

Derek catches Laura’s eye and offers her a small smile and she rolls her eyes.

“So, Laura,” Peter says, “Are you still seeing that boy, uh what’s his name? Josh? Jordan?”

Laura scowls, “Josh, and no. We broke up a while back.”

“Aw, that’s a shame,” his mother coos. “He sounded like such a nice boy.” Derek winces and Laura looks pissed.

“H-He w-wasn’t that g-great,” Derek says quickly. “L-Laura can do better. Did you get th-that owl sent, mother?” Laura shoots him a grateful smile.

“I did-” his mother begins, but Peter cuts her off before she can finish.

“What about you, Derek?" Peter turns to look at him and Derek's stomach drops like a stone. “Have you managed to find a girlfriend yet?” Peter takes a sip of his drink, a wry smile on his lips, but his eyes are hard as steel.

Derek can feel his ears burning, his palms slick with sweat. “I-I-It’s-” he stutters. The whole table has turned to look at him now, five pairs of eyes bore into him. Derek fumbles his knife and it drops to the floor with a clatter.

His mother sighs. “You know, I always hoped you’d get together with Kira.” She turns to Peter. “She’s such a lovely girl, and the Yukimura’s are a good family. I see Noshiko at the ministry sometimes, work has been frightfully busy lately but-”

“Not interested in Kira?” Peter says reproachfully, cutting across her again. “Well then, who are you interested in, Derek?”

And the thing is, even though he’s out at school, Derek’s never told his parents he’s gay. As far as he can tell, they’re completely clueless about his sexuality. Peter isn’t though. Peter guessed years ago and he’s been needling Derek about it like this ever since, baiting him into outing himself to his oblivious parents. And Derek’s torn, split straight down the middle, because on one hand, his sexuality is nothing to do with them. It belongs to him, and no-one else. But equally, he isn't ashamed of who he is, and more to the point, he isn't alone anymore. He doesn’t want anyone to think he’s ashamed of Stiles.

“Uh-I- um- I just- uh.” If he admits that Stiles is his boyfriend, Peter’s only going to belittle their relationship, tear it down and trample it underfoot. It’s too important for that.

He isn't ready.

He just isn't ready yet.

“Cat got your tongue?” Peter drawls. “Come on now, Derek! Answer the question.”

Derek swallows hard, he can feel the tips of his ears burning, and his hands tremble. He can't find the right words. He knows they must exist. There must be something he could say, some stinging comeback or smart remark, but here, with everyone watching him he freezes.

“I don’t see how it’s any of your fucking business,” Laura snaps.

There’s dead silence. Everyone turns to stare at Laura. His mother drops her fork to her plate and the noise makes everyone startle. “Laura Louisa Hale!” she exclaims. “Apologize to your uncle at once!”

Laura raises her chin defiantly, “No.”

“I’m serious, Laura. Otherwise I’ll- I’ll send you to your room.”

“Then send me,” she laughs, “I don’t care. Anything’s better than sitting at this table playing happy families with that dick-”

His mother jumps to her feet and gestures at the door, arm shaking. “Get. Out.”

An uneasy silence hangs in the room, broken only by the scrape of Laura’s chair against the parquet floor as she pushes it back and stands. There are two spots of color high on her cheeks.

“You are not to leave your room until you are ready to apologize to your uncle,” his mother says, struggling to keep her voice steady.

Laura snorts contemptuously. “Then I guess I’ll be in there for the rest of the holidays.” She strides out of the room with her head held high. Everyone watches her leave. When Derek chances a look at Peter, he smirks back at him, eyes cold and victorious.

“I don’t know what they’re teaching them at that school,” his mother says, flustered. “There can’t be any discipline. I’m so sorry Peter.”

Peter leans back in his chair, one hand reaching out to caress the stem of his wine glass between long fingers. “It isn't your fault, Talia,” he says, blandly. He lifts the glass to his lips and takes a long sip. “She’s young and headstrong. There’s nothing wrong with her that a firm hand won’t fix.”

He sounds so fucking patronizing. Like he wasn’t the one that orchestrated all of this, like he didn’t _instigate_ it. Derek’s fists clench, fingernails little half-moon points of pain in the flesh of his palm. He feels his jaw clench tight.

“You think so?” his mother asks.

“Absolutely,” Peter says, silkily. “Like I said, she’s young and, forgive me, not terribly mature for her age. Time in her room to reflect on what she’s done is the bare minim-” he pauses mid-sentence, raises his fist to his mouth and makes a funny little noise, like he’s trying to clear his throat.

“Peter? Are you okay?” his mother asks.

He swallows painfully but then seems to gather himself, he reaches for his wine and takes another sip, longer this time. “Fine,” he says, putting the glass down. “As I was saying. Time in her room is a start but there need to be very real conse-” he pauses again. Swallows. Shifts uncomfortably in his chair.

“Uncle Peter?” Cora asks, wide eyed. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he says, but it comes out slightly strangled, and all eyes are watching him now. “I just,” Peter begins. “I just feel a bit-uuuurrrpp!” he belches. Loud and long and horribly wet.

It’s unexpected and actually kind of horrifying. All Derek can do is gape. His father stares at Peter over the rim of his glasses, puts his wine glass down and tuts reproachfully.

“Peter!” Derek's mother doesn't know whether to look appalled or concerned.

Peter looks as surprised as any of them. “Sorry,” he begins, “I jus-” his hand flies to his mouth again, but not in time and another enormous burp escapes and reverberates around the room.

“Good God, man,” Derek’s father exclaims, “what is the matter with you?”

Peter stands, hand clamped firmly to his mouth, his whole face is strained, puce with the effort of trying to hold in another enormous belch. Without another word he runs for the door. They can hear the sound of his burps echoing down the corridor behind him.

The remaining Hales stare at each other, equal parts bemused and disapproving. Derek’s mother is the first to recover, she dabs her mouth daintily with her napkin and then places it carefully on the table. “I think I should just go and check on him,” she says carefully, before getting up from her seat and hurrying out of the room.

Derek watches her leave, mind whirling. When he looks back his father is shaking his head, mouth tightened in a moue of distaste. Cora sips her water, quiet and demure.

Derek can’t begin to work out what just happened.

 

-

 

After the meal, Derek excuses himself to the kitchen and thanks Pippy for the wonderful food. While he’s there he throws together a plate of leftovers, makes up a jug of pumpkin juice and grabs a couple of glasses. He sets them on a tray and carries it quickly and quietly up the stairs to Laura’s room and knocks on the door, balancing the tray awkwardly on one arm. There’s no answer, so he tries again a little louder.

“L-Laura? It’s me!” He puts his ear to the door, listening intently. He doesn’t hear anything at first, but then there’s a scuffle and a bump and the thump of footsteps drawing nearer. Then the door opens a crack and Laura peers out at him.

She looks tired and irritable and she doesn’t say anything when she sees him, just pulls the door wider and ushers him inside, closing it behind him. He places the tray on her dresser and then turns to her.

“Are you o-okay?”

She shrugs and chuckles bitterly. “Not really, but I kind of expected it. Guess I’m not great at sucking up to Peter after all.” She wanders back across the room and sits on her bed, shoulders hunched. She looks small and unhappy sitting there alone in the enormous room, and his heart aches for her. Without a second thought he crosses the room and takes a seat next to her. The mattress sinks a little under their combined weight, nudging their shoulders together.

“Peter’s a dick,” he says, with feeling.

She snorts. “Obviously.”

Tentatively he wraps an arm round her shoulder and tugs her in so her head is leaning against him. She resists at first, but then sinks into it with a grateful sigh and hugs him back.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” he says, after a while.

“No, I really did.” She lifts her head to look at him. “If and when you come out to our useless parents, it will be on your terms not his.”

He drops a kiss on her hair. “I b-brought you food and pumpkin juice.”

“I saw,” she grins. “You’re the best. What happened after I left?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me. I bet mother complained about me and Hogwarts,” she guesses, “and Peter egged her on.”

“Well, he tried too- but-”

There’s a sharp knock at the door. “Laura,” their mother’s voice calls. “Open the door please.”

The two of them break apart and Laura sighs heavily.

“Laura,” their mother calls, knocking again. “I know you’re in there. We need to talk, young lady.”

“Do you want me to stay?” he asks.

“No, better not.”

They both get up and Laura walks across the room and opens the door.

“Laura,” their mother says, and then stops when she sees her son. “Derek, what are you doing here?”

“I j-just came to make sure she’s okay,” Derek says, “I’m leaving now.”

He slips passed them and out into the corridor. His mother sighs, irritably. “You shouldn’t have been here at all. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with you both. As if this evening hasn’t been awful enough. First that dreadful argument, then your uncle taking ill at the dinner table.” Laura’s head whips up, her eyes wide with surprise.

“He was taken ill?” she asks.

“Yes, well,” their mother blusters, “not ill precisely, but  _something_ wasn't right." She throws her hands up in frustration, "And now, if that’s not enough, he’s complaining about the smell in his room. The smell! Anyway, I had Pippy make up the spare guest room, and we moved his bags across and now he’s complaining about the smell in there too! Honestly, I can’t smell anything unusual at all. I don’t know what’s wrong with him!”

Derek and Laura look at each other and then back at their mother.

“A s-smell?” Derek asks, just as Laura says, “What kind of smell?”

“Merlin only knows,” she sighs. “I’ve told him, I don’t have an unlimited number of rooms. He’s just going to have to put up with it.”

“Maybe he could sleep on the couch?” Laura suggests, saccharine sweet, “Or in the cellar. He might even be more comfortable in his own home.”

“Laura, don't be callous.” Their mother narrows her eyes and glares. “Derek, it’s time for you to go. I need to have words with your sister.”

“Night-night, Der-bear,” Laura says, offering him a weak smile.

“Sleep tight, Lulu,” he kisses her on the forehead.

She smiles then, soft and genuine, because that’s his old childhood nickname for her, back from when they were very small and he couldn’t really pronounce her name. He hasn’t used it in years. She hugs him one last time, nice and tight, then his mother shuts the door on him and he’s left standing in the corridor alone. He spends one fruitless moment hoping she won’t be too hard on Laura, but he doesn’t hold out much hope. Sometimes he wonders if he should just tell her the truth about Peter, but he doesn’t think for one second she’ll believe them. Peter is so convincing, so charismatic, unless she actually witnesses it, she’ll just think they’re making up stories to be mean. No, there has to be another way. 

Derek spends hours mulling it over in bed that night, trying to figure out what can be done. It takes him hours to drift off into restless sleep.

  
-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kudos and comments are appreciated more than you'll ever know.
> 
> I have the next chapter planned out. I know I have a busy week next week, but I'm going to try and get it done.


	23. Chapter 23

On Christmas morning Derek’s woken by pale, wintery sunshine that streams in through a crack in the heavy drapes at his bedroom window. He lays there a long while, too tired to move. It had been almost four in the morning before his brain finally sputtered to a stop and let him drift off into a restless sleep.

He’s still no closer to know how to handle Peter or his parents. This morning he almost feels like he did the morning after the Yule Ball. Hungover. Except he hasn’t had anything to drink this time. This is an emotional hangover, a mixture of guilt and anxiety, and it brings with it the mother of all headaches.  He curls into a ball, scrunching his eyes shut against the light.

 _Merlin,_ he feels so fucking useless, so conflicted.

He wishes Stiles were here, or Kira, they’d know what to do.

He tugs the pillow round so it covers his eyes and his knuckles brush up against the notebook that he stuffed under his pillow yesterday. His fingers close around it and he sighs. If Stiles could see him now what would he say? Derek has spent the last few days advising Stiles to talk to his dad, has tried to convince him to do anything he can to repair their relationship.  
  
Yet here he is, dreading get out of bed, hating the thought of dealing with Peter, too nervous to stand up for himself. He can’t even come out to his parents.

The last thing Stiles wrote to him was that he would always choose Derek, but would that still be true if he could see him now? Derek isn't so sure.

There’s a loud knock at the door and his mother calls, “Breakfast time!”

Derek lets go of the notebook and sighs. He’ll write to Stiles later on. In the meantime he somehow needs to find the courage to stand up for himself. For his own sake and for Stiles’.

 

-

 

After the drama of the previous evening, Derek’s dreading breakfast. Since he’s been home he’s become used to just sharing meals with his sisters. On Christmas Day though, his parents make the effort to be around, and breakfast is only the first of three uncomfortable family meals he’s got to get through today.

When he walks into the dining room his mother is already there, sitting at the huge table piled high with food.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” his mother says as she helps herself to a plate of bacon and eggs.  “Don’t just stand in the doorway, you’re letting all the cold air in.”

Derek closes the door and takes a seat next to her.

“Did you sleep well?” she asks, cutting her bacon into neat pieces.

Derek nods. “Where is everyone else?”

“On their way down I should think.” She watches him expectantly. “Aren’t you going to eat?”

He shrugs, but reaches out and grabs a slice of toast, he doesn’t eat it though. He feels sick to the pit of his stomach, the need to do something, _anything_ , coursing through him. Laura got in trouble trying to protect him last night, and while he’s grateful that she stood up to Peter for him, that whole incident wouldn’t have happened if he could just find the words to say to his parents. If he could just steel himself and say what needs to be said. He has to do it. He will.

“So-uh,” he says. His mother looks at him.

“What is it?” she asks, when he doesn’t continue.

“I just- I w-wanted to t-talk to you a-about y-yesterday.”

“Yesterday? You mean about, Laura? You don’t need to worry, everything is fine. We talked to out.”

“Erm.” Derek  says, momentarily side-tracked. “O-Okay.” He’s not sure that his mother’s definition of ‘fine’ aligns with Laura’s. “So she’s n-not banished to her room for the r-rest of the holidays?” he asks.

“No. Of course not.”

“G-Good.” He takes a deep breath. “I didn’t w-want to talk to you about L-Laura, though.”

“Oh? Well, what is it then?”

Derek clears his throat and shifts in his seat. “It was-uh. I mean- I just-” He just needs to say it. Say: I’m gay or I have a boyfriend, or your brother is a spiteful, capricious dick, who has made my life miserable for years. (Okay, maybe not that one, even if it is true). He stares down at his hands.

His mother puts her hand on his arm. “Derek, you know you can tell me anything.” And it sucks, because she almost sounds sincere, and maybe she is, maybe she _thinks_ she really means that. ‘You know you can tell me anything,’ she says, like it’s easy, like it’s obvious, but the truth is he doesn’t know that. He never has. Mostly because she’s spent half her life making painful little assumptions about who he is and what he’ll be, and he knows, he just _knows_ that if he tells her the truth it’s going to change everything, he just isn’t sure _how._

He opens his mouth, shuts it again. Dares to meet her gaze, and what he finds there surprises him. She looks soft and approachable. For once in his life he has her full attention and he sees it in her face right then, she does care about him.

He can do this. “The- The things i-is-” he begins, swallowing nervously. The door to the dining room bangs open, making them both start.

“Merry Christmas!” Laura calls jovially as she strolls into the room, Cora trailing after her.

“Merry Christmas, girls!” their mother calls. And just like that, the moment is gone. His mother’s attention isn’t on him any more.

Derek sighs and takes a disconsolate bite of toast, dry, no butter. Laura sits across from him and Cora takes a seat next to her.

“Where’s Peter?” Cora asks.

“Not down yet.”

“Oooh, maybe he had a relapse in the night.” Laura says cheerily, loading her plate with bacon and eggs.

“Laura, we talked about this.”

“Sorry.” She doesn’t look sorry. “He’s probably just investigating his room for imaginary smells.”

“Laura.”  Their mother glares.

Laura ducks her head to hide her smirk, but their mother seems to take it as a sign she’s been adequately cowed. She changes the subject and starts to talk about the plans and preparations for the day ahead, and Derek listens with half an ear.

“Hey pass me the toast!” Laura hisses, gesturing at the toast rack. Derek scowls at the nickname, but hands it over anyway. She grins. “Aw, thanks Derrykins.” He _hates_ that nickname.

He kicks her under the table as a warning. She tries to kick him back, but he tucks his legs under his chair and she can’t reach, so instead she flicks a piece of scrambled egg at him. It lands in a sad little splat on the table, missing him by a mile. Derek snorts.

“Sometimes I think Cora is the most grown up out of all of you,” their mother says with a long suffering sigh.

Cora grins smugly, Laura elbows her swiftly in the side and Derek huffs out a laugh.

The door to the dining room opens and his laughter dies on his lips.

Peter stands in the doorway and surveys the room, top lip curled in that smug sneer that Derek’s come to dread. His stomach sinks and he looks away quickly.

“Peter, you’re finally here!”

“Good morning, Talia.” Something about his voice makes Derek look up again. It’s strained, a tired edge to it. He watches as Peter takes a seat next to Cora, sees the way his shirt collar is creased, robes dishevelled. There are purple smudges under his eyes and his mouth is pinched in disapproval, his nostrils flare and he frowns, then he catches Derek watching him and his scowl deepens.

Derek looks down at his plate and doesn’t speak again for the rest of the meal.

 

-

 

Derek’s day doesn’t get much better as it goes on. The family gathers around the tree taking turns to open gifts. Eventually Cora opens a long thin package which turns out to be a new racing broom.

“For when you start at Hogwarts, sweetie,” says his mother.

Cora grins, her cheeks slightly pink.

“Let’s have a look, Cor,” Laura says, straining to see it. Cora hands it to her. “Nice” Laura says, approvingly. “It reminds me of the the old firebolt. Practice on it and maybe you’ll make the house team.”

Cora look confused. “I thought first years couldn’t make the house team.”

“Not often,” Laura says, “But some manage it.”

“Really?” Cora says, hopefully.

“I’m pretty sure Stiles did, right?” Laura turns to Derek.

Derek nods. “He’d never been near a broom before either,” he says. “They said he has a natural aptitude for it and now he’s the Gryffindor Captain.” Cora looks delighted.

“Who is Stiles?” his mother asks.

Derek can feel the tips of his ears turn pink, and he can’t help the panicked glance he sends Peter’s way. “I-Uh-” he stutters.

Peter’s gaze turns sharp, he smiles lazily. “Stiles? Interesting name. Where’s he from?”

“Um- A-America.” Derek manages.

Peter raises one eyebrow. “Ah, an American, and good at Quidditch?” he says. “How interesting.” Derek stares down at his hands, but he can feel Peter’s gaze on him.

“Okay, where’s my present?” Laura says loudly.

A moment later, Peter wanders over and takes a seat between Cora and Derek, makes a big show of looking over the racing broom, checking the bristles and testing the grip on the handle. Then, while the rest of the family are busy watching Laura unwrap her gift, he leans across to Derek and whispers. “A little cliche, isn’t it, nephew? Pining after the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. Do you really think he'll ever be interested?”

And Derek wants to say something, wants to tell him that it isn’t just pining. That Stiles likes him back. That they’re dating and they’re happy and there’s nothing Peter can do about it, but all his words get stuck in his throat and he just shrugs and ducks his head, because this is what Peter does. What he’s _always_ done, he makes Derek feel young and foolish, takes all the doubts and fears that squirm and wriggle like maggots in Derek’s brain and gives them a voice.

If Stiles could see him now would he want to be with him? Would he be ashamed? Is he letting him down?

He’s stomach churns, he can’t focus and before he can think to much about it he makes his excuses, says he’s going to the bathroom, and then disappears upstairs so he can have five minutes to freak out.

He sits on his bed head in his hands tries to calm himself down.

He wishes, once again, that he could talk to Stiles, he feels sure if Stiles were here it would be different, _he_ would be different. Stronger. Better.

Maybe he should write to him. He’s been so distracted, he hasn’t checked his notebook today at all, hasn’t checked it in a while, actually. He reaches under his pillow for it and flips it open, his heart stutters in his chest when realizes that Stiles has written to him. He settles back on the bed to read.

 

_Derek,_

_I need to go to bed, because it’s, like, 3AM here, and it’s Christmas Day, but I wanted to tell you: I finally talked to my dad tonight, like, we spoke for hours._

_I’m so fucking emotional, my hands are shaking so bad you probably can’t read a word of this. Also, I kind of keep randomly bursting into tears, and I’m worried that the ink might run, but I need to write this, I need to tell you. We talked, and it was good.  We talked about my mom, we talked about Hogwarts, we talked about his job and we talked about you. I told him how great you are and how much you mean to me._

_Before I got to know you, I was stuck in this rut. It felt like there was a person everyone expected me to be and I was trapped trying to live up to it. I was so fucking lonely and so, so tired. Then I met you. You’re the first person who ever really saw me for who I was. You make me feel like I’m okay exactly as I am. I'm so glad I walked into the library that day and sat down at your table. Before I met you, I'd never told anyone about my family, how bad things were with my dad, how much I missed my mom. I don't know. I feel like talking to you gave me the courage to talk to him. I think I have a shot at a good relationship with my dad now, because of you. It's--You’re amazing._

 

_So I wanted to say thanks. Thanks for being there. Thanks for being you._

 

_I  miss you._

_Love,_

_Stiles_

 

Derek sits there for a while, longer than he means to, reading and re-reading Stiles note again and again and every time he does he feels his heart swell in his chest. His eyes are damp. His hands are shaking.

Stiles has done it. Stiles has managed to make progress with his dad, and for one moment Derek is so proud, so _pleased,_ he can’t stop smiling.

That settles it, he thinks to himself, if Stiles can do _that_ , then he can face his parents, he can take on Peter, he can do anything.

He gets up, puts the notebook back under his pillow and rubs his eyes with the heel of his hand. He wants to write to Stiles, but he knows he wants to take his time with it, and if he stays up here too much longer someone is going to come looking for him.

When he rejoins his family his mother is encouraging Peter to open their gift to him. It turns out to be a set of black dress robes with a deep blue trim.

“Try them on, make sure they fit!” his mother says.

Peter rolls his eyes but slips them on over his clothes anyway.

“They  look really good, Uncle Peter,” says Cora, looping an arm around his waist.

“Thank-you. Especially you, Talia. Impeccable taste, as always.”

His mother preens. Derek glances at Laura who rolls her eyes so hard they’re in danger of falling out of her head. Nobody else seems to notice. He goes to take a seat next to her and she leans across and whispers, “Are you okay? You were gone for a while. I nearly came to check on you.”

“I’m fine. It was just Peter being Peter. I needed to get some space.”

She shakes her head. “You want me to destroy him, because I will take that sonofabitch down and I won’t fucking hesitate.”

“It’s okay.”

“Really?” She sounds almost comically disappointed.

“Peter, are you quite alright?” Derek’s head snaps up at the sound of his mother’s voice. Peter’s standing next to her, he looks… uncomfortable. He’s scratching at his arm impatiently, then his neck, then back to his arm again. His face is flushed and there’s sweat pooling on his upper lip. He’s shifting from foot to foot like he’s pants are full of fire ants.

“I don’t- I think-” he begins. Everyone in the room is looking at him now. He claws at his neck, leaving red nail marks and rolls his shoulders. “Excuse me-” he says and hurries from the room.

Their mother looks after him and gnaws her lip. “I better go after him.”

Peter disappears upstairs for the rest of the gift opening and only reappears again when Christmas dinner is being served. When he arrives at the table his hair is damp, like he’s freshly showered, and he isn’t scratching himself like a flea-ridden dog any more.

He’s quiet at first, and Derek thinks perhaps they’re going to enjoy a family meal with minimal drama. He’s wrong, naturally.

By the time the food is served, Peter has made at least two thinly veiled jibes about the amount of food on Laura’s plate, and it’s evident that Laura is struggling to bite her tongue after yesterday’s debacle. The growing tension is only broken when Cora knocks her glass of water all over the table. They’re all distracted then, busy trying to mop it up. When they’re finally all seated again Peter takes a sip of his wine and develops a hiccoughing fit so severe he’s forced to leave the room.

Laura is positively gleeful. Their parents look on bemused.

Derek is suspicious though. Either Peter is  developing some previously unheard of illness, or _someone_ is doing _something_. Who though? His parents are out of the question. Which leaves Laura or Cora. Laura’s angry enough to do this stuff, but she lacks subtlety. She’s too up front, far more likely to scream in Peter’s face then go behind his back and… well… do what exactly? Put itching powder in his clothes? Spike his drink? No, this has to be Cora, who has been playing nice with Peter since he arrived, despite everything she knows about him. Is his little sister really capable of doing that stuff though? Does he really believe she could do this? He isn't sure what to think any more, but he needs to find out.

 

o0o

  


“Hey son, I wondered if you fancied some breakfast.” Stiles’ dad stands awkwardly in the doorway to his room. One hand resting against the frame, trying to be casual.

Stiles rolls over and blinks blearily up at him, twisting up in the comforter on his bed. “Uh, yeah. Sure. I’ll, um, be right out.”

“Okay,” his dad looks pleased; he turns to leave, and a minute later Stiles can hear him puttering about in the kitchen, clattering pots and pans getting things ready.

Stiles lays there for a moment, orienting himself. Then rolls out of bed and starts to get dressed, tugs on his obligatory graphic tee and skinny jeans. He runs a hand through his hair. Another Christmas without his mom, but this time it feels like it might be okay. It feels like _they_ might be okay.

He pads down the corridor to the kitchen to find his dad has all the ingredients out for pancakes. When he enters the room his dad looks up and gives him a rueful smile, “I’m not much of one for cooking,” he admits.

Stiles grins, “I’ll mix the batter, you man the griddle.”

“Sounds like a fair division of labor.” His dad says, as Stiles takes up position over the bowl and starts to measure out ingredients.

Later, they sit at the table together eating slightly misshapen pancakes smothered in syrup.

“So, I uh- I didn’t get you a Christmas present as such this year, son. Just a check. You can spend it how you want.”

His dad looks guilty, embarrassed, even. Stiles shrugs and offers him a smile. “That’s fine, don’t worry about it. Money’s always good.”

His dad pushes a forkful of pancake round his plate, unwilling to meet Stiles’ eyes. “I just never know what to get you any more,” he admits.

Stiles fingers close around his coffee mug. He lets the warmth seep into his fingers, looks around him and takes in the tree they spent all evening decorating only yesterday, the picture of his mom that hangs on the wall just over his dad’s shoulder, the slightly burnt pancakes that they just made, together.  “Honestly?” he says, “This right here? Having breakfast with you? It’s good. It’s all I need.” His dad meets his eyes and smiles.

Later, they’re standing by the sink washing the dishes.

“You have to do this at school?” his dad asks, and there’s no edge to it. No bitterness. It’s a genuine question.

“Nah,” Stiles admits, “And even if I did, they’d let us use magic.”

His dad double takes. “You’re saying you could wash the dishes with magic?”

Stiles shrugs.

“Show me.”

“Are you serious?” Stiles asks, mouth hanging open a little.

This time it’s his dad’s turn to shrug. “I’m- I’m interested,” he says gruffly. Stiles gapes. “Well, don’t just stand there, kiddo,” his dad snaps, the corner of his mouth tugging up in amusement. “Go get that magic wand of yours and show me how you clean these dishes.”

“Uh, yeah, yeah, okay,” Stiles says, coming to himself. “I’ll- um, get right on it.” He hurries out of the room nearly missing the soft smile on his Dad’s face as he leaves.

  


o0o

 

After Christmas dinner, Peter finally joins the family again, he glares at Derek and Laura suspiciously and goes to sit with their parents, gets involved in discussing politics loudly. Laura and Cora settle in for a game of exploding snap. Derek waits for his sisters to finish their game and then whispers for them to join him in his room. None of the adults pay much attention as they troop upstairs.

Derek ushers them into his room and closes the door carefully behind them.

“What’s up, bro?” Laura says settling herself onto his bed comfortably.

“I-I’ve been thinking, about Peter.”

Laura’s face screws up in disgust. “Ugh. Why would you do that to yourself?” She stretches back on the bed, hands slung behind her head. “Speaking of the king of the dickheads though, do you think he’s coming down with something? He’s been acting really weird.”

Derek casts a suspicious glance at Cora, whose expression is carefully impassive. “It _is_ weird,” he agrees, “But I don’t think he’s coming down with anything, is he, _Cora_?”

Laura leans up on her elbows and looks at Cora, then back at Derek, then at Cora again. A slow smile creeps across Cora’s face, her eyes bright.

“You are fucking kidding me!” Laura releases a stream of creative curse words. “I don’t believe it.”

Cora’s positively beaming now.

Laura grins back at her. “So the burping, the itching, the insistence that he can smell Merlin knows what in his room?”

Cora shrugs awkwardly, looking deeply pleased.

“So after he said that stuff to me at dinner just now?” Laura asks.

“I sprinkled ground up hiccoughing sweets into his wine.”

“While we were all busy mopping up your drink I suppose.”

Cora nods. She glances across at Derek. “I’m only punishing him when he says bad stuff.”

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, “Cora-”

“Somebody needs to,” she persists, “And it isn’t like you ever stand up to him.”

“It needs to stop."

“Does it?” Laura asks incredulously. “He’s an arsehole. I think it’s genius. I’m only sorry I didn’t think of it. You’re gonna make one hell of a Ravenclaw, sis.” Cora screws up her nose a little.

“Ravenclaw,” Derek says, “Or Slytherin.” She beams up at him then. “You need to stop now, Cora,” he says, sternly.

“But-”

“I’m serious. If anyone else finds out you’ll be in so much trouble. B-Besides, this is my battle, not yours. I’m going to deal with, Peter.”

She scowls at him.

“Are you though?” Laura mutters.

“Y-Yes. Look. One of us has to be r-responsible here, and Peter is definitely getting suspicious. He isn’t above searching our rooms, and then he’ll know it’s you-”

“I don’t care-”

“Well I do.”

They glare at each other for a long moment, and then she sighs. “Fine,” she says, sulkily. “Come on then.”

They make their way down the corridor to her room and follow her inside. She slouches across the room to her bed. “Turn around!” she commands. “I don’t want you seeing where I hide my stuff.”

Derek sighs. “Fine.” He and Laura turn their backs, there’s a scuffling sound and then a few seconds later she says, “Okay- you can look back again now.”

They both turn together and Laura inhales sharply. There’s a mound of packets and jars and boxes of varying kinds on the bed, Derek leans forward to sift through them and finds everything from bulbadox powder to skiving snackboxes and a fake wand. There are several powders in little vials each one labelled in Cora’s neat script. His eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. “Did you _make_ this?” He asks.

She nods, “I’ve been experimenting. So,” she picks up a vial containing clear liquid, “I put a couple of drops onto the collars and cuffs of his pajamas and every shirt he brought with him. It’s why he could smell something weird wherever he went.” She opens the vial and Derek leans over and sniffs. He can’t smell anything. “Keep breathing it in,” Cora says with a smirk.

He does and slowly but surely it builds, faint at first, but then worse and worse, a smell, a disgusting smell, somewhere between rancid fish and sweaty shoes, it sets his teeth on edge. The more he inhales, the worse it gets. He flinches away and it immediately disappears. “You made that?” he asks. She nods. “You’re an actual evil genius,” he says, stunned.

She grins at him. “No, not evil. I only use my powers for good.” She screws the lid back on the vial.

“You were right,” Laura says, looking at her wonderingly. “First Hale in Slytherin. I can’t wait to see our mother’s face.” Cora rolls her eyes.

Derek picks up the skiving snackbox and as many bottles and vials as he can carry. “Right, where are we going to hide this stuff? Think people.”

Laura grabs an armful of packets and powders and a fake wand. Cora takes the rest. “What about the attic room, we could put it up there. No-one ever goes up there. It’s dark and dreary and fucking depressing,” Laura suggests.

“Good idea.” Derek agrees.

They sneak out of Cora’s room and up two flights of stairs. The attic room is crowded with boxes and antiques, crumbling suits of armor and old pictures. They can hide this stuff in there easily and nobody will find it.

“Oh Merlin,” Cora says, stopping two steps from the attic room door, her eyes wide. “I dissolved a puking pastille in the glass of water by his bed this morning. I mean, he can’t of used it yet, but I should probably-”

“Run down to his room and deal with it,” Derek says firmly. “And be careful.”

She dumps the stuff she’s carrying on the floor and races off down the stairs. Laura looks after her fondly. “I can’t believe I ever thought she was lame.”

“Yeah, well, just remind yourself never to get on her bad side,” Derek agrees. He pushes against the door to the attic room with his shoulder and sighs. “It won’t open.”

“There’s a knack to the handle. Just a minute.” Laura hands him a few boxes and then tries the handle, jiggles it, turns it, tries again. Nothing happens.

“Alohamora might work,” Derek suggests.

She pats her jeans. “I left my wand downstairs. Dammit. All I have is this one, and I’m pretty sure if I use it it’ll turn into a haddock or something.” She says holding up the fake wand.

“Fine,” Derek sighs. “Take this.” He hands her his stuff and grabs his own wand from his jeans. Mutters ‘ _Alohamora_ ’ under his breath and flicks the wand at the door. It opens. “There,” he says, “now let’s get this-”

“Well, well, well, what have we got here.” Peter’s voice cuts across his and both Derek and Laura start. They stare at each other in mute horror.

“Hmm,” Peter says, poking at the pile of pranks Cora left on the floor with a toe. “Bulbadox powder, hiccoughing sweets, belching powder, how _interesting._ ”

They turn as one to look at him.

“It isn’t what it looks like,” Laura says immediately.

“You mean you aren’t trying to hide all of this to avoid getting into trouble?”

“Okay. It’s sort of what it looks like,” Laura concedes.

“Of course it is.” His eyes are hard. “Did you really think I didn’t suspect you? Did you really think you could get away with this? That I wouldn’t work it out? Spineless, juvenile, conniving little-”

“It wasn't them, it was me.”

Everyone freezes at the sound of Cora’s voice ringing out loud and clear. She’s standing behind him, chin in the air, that mutionus expression on her face again.

“What?” Peter’s voice sounds like the crack of a whip.

“I said, it was me. I did it. All of it. All by myself. They didn’t have anything to do with it.”

“But-” Peter looks between the three of them, momentarily stumped.

“I put belching powder in your drink last night.” She takes a step toward him. “I’m the one who made all your clothes smell bad.” She smirks. “I sprinkled Bulbadox powder inside the robes mother bought you for Christmas when I helped her wrap it-”

“You little shit. I had boils all over my arms-” Peter spits, he wrenches up the sleeve of his robe, trembling with fury. All composure disappearing. He glares at Cora furiously. “I’m going to teach you a lesson,” Peter snarls. “I’m going to-” He reaches into his robes for his wand, but flounders, it isn’t there, and Derek sees Cora smirk, has a split second to wonder if she's responsible for that too, before Peter wheels round and snatches the fake wand out of Laura’s hands. “ _Petrificus Totalus_.” He screams angrily, pointing the wand at Cora.

In an explosion of fake feathers, the wand turns into a rubber chicken that stands stiff for a second and then gradually droops sadly in his hand. They all stand there looking at it, speechless with shock, and then Laura snorts with laughter.

Peter throws it to the floor in disgust and strides towards Cora, hands reaching out like he’s going to grab her by the shoulders and shake her within an inch of her life. And that’s when Derek moves. He doesn’t think about it, doesn’t fucking hesitate. One minute he’s standing there watching, rooted to the spot, and the next he’s charging at Peter, wand drawn. He tackles him, shoving him into the wall, grabs him by the collar with one hand, the other points his wand at Peter’s throat. For one moment he and his uncle stare at each other, breathing hard.

“We both- We both know you don’t have it in you.” Peter pants. “You’re not going to hurt me. Put your wand down.” Derek doesn’t release his white-knuckled grip on Peter’s collar. Jabs his wand into the hollow of Peter’s throat. He stares down at him-

He stares _down_ at the man who has bullied and belittled him since he was six years old, and it hits him: He’s bigger than Peter, taller and broader, and on current evidence, stronger too, and judging by the flicker of fear in his eye, Peter knows it too. Derek feels the like the ground is shifting beneath his feet, his world shifting to accomodate this new information. He tightens his grip on Peter’s collar.

“Der-” Laura says, uncertainly, “Are you okay?” He doesn’t answer, he isn’t sure. He can feel blood rushing through his ears, his heart pounding frantically in his chest. He can't remember being this angry before, can't remember being this close to losing control. He has never wanted to hurt someone as badly as he wants to hurt Peter right now, so many years of anger and hurt surging through him, bursting to find expression. And yet.

“This isn’t you, Derek.” Peter rasps. “This isn’t you.”

And the thing is, Peter’s right.

Peter’s right.

This isn’t him.

Not really.

He doesn’t punch people.

He doesn’t lash out.

He doesn’t lose his temper.

Not normally anyway.

Not with most people.

Maybe, when it comes to Peter, he needs to make an exception. Throw the punch, cast the curse.

Is this how it ends?

Is this how he finally makes a stand?

Is this how he finally breaks Peter’s hold over him? Is this how he wants this to go down? Or is there better way?

There’s always a better way.

A _smarter_ way.

He looks Peter in the eye, and slowly, deliberately, he lets him go. He takes a step back, then another, his wand still pointing at Peter, who stands still as a statue, watching his every move. And Derek knows he isn't the only one who's adjusting their view of the world.

“I d-don’t know what I e-ever did to you to make you h-hate me so much,” Derek says, softly. “B-But I’m done c-caring about it. I’m done letting what you think affect my life. We all are.” He glances to his sisters and back to Peter. “Here’s h-how it’s going to go. We’re all g-going to go back downstairs and pretend to like each other for the r-rest of Christmas Day. There won’t be any more pranks,” he glances at Cora, who frowns. “And y-you-” he gestures at Peter with his wand, “You’re going to play n-nice too. Understand? And then tomorrow morning, you’re going to pack your bags and you’re not going to come b-back.”

“And why would I do that?” Peter sneers. “Why wouldn’t I just bring your parents up here and show them what their little angels have been up to?”

“Y-You can try, if y-you want. But I wouldn’t r-recommend it. After all, C-Cora’s already proved that she’s perfectly happy to f-find creative ways to make your life m-miserable, and Laura has a mean r-right hook, I’m sure you r-remember.” Laura cracks her knuckles.

Peter laughs hollowly. “That’s it, is it? You’re going to threaten to set your sisters on me if I don’t do as you say? Really, Derek, I always knew you were spineless, but hiding behind them-”

“I was being k-kind.” Derek says, interrupting him. “I don’t have to be. We both know I can do w-worse. _I_ can reveal exactly who you really are, all the things you’ve s-said to me-”

Peter laughs, “You think they’ll believe you? Running to your parents to tell tales on your wicked uncle.”

A slow, sad smile spreads across Derek’s face. “Your r-right of course, but then, w-why would I tell them something face to face, when I could write an article and p-print it for the whole world to see?”

Peter’s lip curls in a sneer, but Derek doesn’t miss the flicker of worry in his eyes. “Nobody would believe you,” he says. “The Beacon is a stupid kiddy newspaper. Nobody takes it seriously.”

Derek shrugs. “M-Maybe not, teachers would see it though, and students would probably mention it to their parents, and people would start to wonder, people would talk, wouldn’t they?. They’d start to look at you just a bit differently. And I’m w-willing to bet I’m not the only person you’ve bullied. In fact, someone like you probably has a lot of e-enemies. A lot of people who are just waiting for you to slip up, w-waiting for any sign of weakness, they're just waiting for an _excuse_.” Peter pales visibly and Derek knows, he just _knows_ he’s right. “How l-long do you think it would take for other people to come forward, for r-rumors to spread, for invitations to those social events you like so m-much to dry up, for work to just-” he clicks his fingers- “d-d-disappear. You see, Peter, it doesn’t matter if people don’t believe me _._ It just m-matters that they doubt _you._ ”

Peter closes his eyes, exhales deeply. When he opens them again, his eyes are cold and hard. “Fine,” he says. “Fine, have it your way.”

“I thought y-you’d say that.” Derek nods his head toward the stairs. “O-Off you go, P-Peter. My p-parents are probably w-wondering where you are.” Peter grimaces and turns to leave, but Derek calls him back. “A-And P-Peter, just t-to be clear. From n-now on. If you c-come after one of us, you come after all three of us, do y-you understand? We're not putting up with your shit any m-more.”

Peter shoots all of them a look of deepest loathing and sweeps off down the corridor without another word. As soon as he’s out of sight Derek’s shoulders sag, his hands shaking. Laura slings an arm across his shoulders and squeezes tight. “Circe, Der. I think maybe _you_ should have been in Slytherin.”

The next moment Cora barrels into him, wraps her arms around him and hugs him tight, her dark hair tickling his chin. The three of them stand there in the corridor hugging each other tight, and in that moment for the first time in his life, Derek feels a little taste of what it's like to be free.

  


o0o

 

Stiles’ day has been quiet, but good. His dad had looked on amazed as Stiles had washed the dishes with a few quick flicks of his wand. Afterwards they’d chatted and watched TV and made some food together, nothing too fancy, there’s only two of them, but they eat it together and it’s nice. Afterwards his dad dozes on the couch and Stiles disappears to his bedroom, putters about for a bit, surfs the internet, reads a book, checks his notebook, but Derek still hasn’t written back. That’s when he realizes he never opened Derek’s gift for him, which seems like a ridiculous oversight, so he digs about in his school bag, finds the carefully wrapped box with the green bow and holds it in his hands testing the weight of it.

He runs his finger along the seam of the paper, peels the tape back and slowly unwraps it. There’s a thin white box inside, quite plain, and when he opens the lid there’s a plain leather-bound book inside. Slowly he takes it out and opens it and a soft sigh escapes him.

It’s filled with newspaper cuttings all taken from The Beacon, every single Quidditch match he’s ever played is right there. There are pictures of him in action on his broom, hurtling toward the hoops, one of him taking a bludger to the face, another of him doing a loop de loop. There are articles, some of which he’s read, most of which he hasn’t, reporting the games, detailing the scores. It’s a complete record of his Quidditch career so far at Hogwarts. STILINSKI SAVES THE DAY FOR GRYFFINDOR! Proclaims one headline. A shadow falls over the book and Stiles looks up with a start.

“Is that you?” His dad’s voice is sleep-soft and incredulous, he’s staring down at the book. Stiles nods. His dad takes a seat next to him on the bed. “What- What is this? Are those pictures _moving?_ ”

“Quidditch, and yes. All wizarding pictures move.”

His dad pauses, fingers running over the page as a picture of Stiles on his broom quaffle tucked under his arm heading towards the hoops. “What the hell is a Quidditch?”

“It’s a sport. A wizarding sport. _The_ wizarding sport.”

“And you’re on the team?”

“I’m the captain of my team.”

“So you’re good?”

Stiles shrugs. “I guess.” He is good. Really good. And more to the point he loves it. He turns a page, and there are yet more articles, more pictures. He had no idea he’d appeared in The Beacon this much. His dad leans over his shoulder, reading.

“Okay, but what’s a quaffle?”

“It’s a ball.”

“And a snitch?”

“Also a ball.”

“Just how many balls are there?”

And that’s how Stiles ends up explaining Quidditch to his dad late on Christmas evening. They sit there together as Stiles relives every single one of his triumphs and failures, teaches his dad everything he can about the sport he loves.

“Is that what you want to do?” his dad asks eventually. “Play Quidditch?”

Stiles ducks his head guiltily. “Um- I don’t know. Maybe.” He knows his dad can see through him though. They both know the answer is yes.

His dad taps his finger against the page. “Are there teams in California?”

“Uh- probably, I don’t know.” Strange as it seems, he doesn’t know much about the wizarding culture of his own country. He doesn’t know whether there are teams or where they are. He’s spent most of his time since he discovered he was a wizard at Hogwarts or skulking round his dad’s apartment and it isn’t like he can just look that shit up on the internet. He turns another page, and his breath catches in his throat. There’s one picture on this page, it’s a loose photograph, not stuck down. It’s a picture of Derek, gazing nervously at the camera. As Stiles watches he ducks his head and then looks up and flashes a shy smile.

“Who’s that?” His dad asks, picking the photo up gingerly between thumb and forefinger.

“That’s Derek.”

“Your boyfriend, huh?” His dad studies the photo carefully.  “I’d like to meet him some time.”

“Yeah? I'd like that too.”

He stares down at the photograph, but he can feel his dad’s eyes on him. Eventually his dad gets up with a deep sigh, rests one hand heavily on Stiles’ shoulder. “I guess I always assumed that when you finished school you would be back here, but your life isn’t here any more, is it?”

And Stiles wants to reassure him, wants to say, ‘Of course I’m coming back here.’ But truthfully, he isn’t sure what his future holds, and he doesn’t want to promise anything he can’t deliver on. He wants to be able to support his dad, but he needs to be able to live his own life too and he has no idea how everything is going to work out. “I don’t know what’s going to happen," he says. "I don’t know where I’m going to end up. But I want you to know that you are really important to me. I love you, Dad, and I’m not going to let us drift apart again. Wherever I am, whatever I end up doing, you’re going to be a big part of my life, I promise.”

His dad gives him a small smile. “Okay, son. Okay. That’s good enough for me.”

  


o0o

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who are interested, in the comments for this chapter I have included my headcanons for why Peter is such a dick in this fic.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, remember ages ago, in 2015 when I wrote a little one shot and then decided to write a sequel that I told myself would be about 5k max, do you? HAH. That's what I have to say to 2015 me, because this sucker is just over 87k and I'm really not sure how it happened. 
> 
> Anyway, I feel like I should thank my 560 subscribers (wtf guys?!) everyone who left kudos and who took the time to comment. You are all amazing, and I have to give a special shout out to Seeilin, who encouraged me to write a sequel in the first place, and then commented on every single chapter of this fic, even though it took nearly a year and a half to write. I have one thing to say to you, bb: I'm sorry Peter is such a dick in this, but look, I finished! *throws confetti everywhere*
> 
> Also, if you are someone who started reading this a while ago and then gave up because of my appalling ability to update (but stayed subscribed in the hope that I would one day finish), then I humbly suggest re-reading from the beginning, because while I haven't changed the plot, there have been a lot of edits made in the last few months as I finally realized the shape the story was taking, and it might make more sense. Up to you, obviously.

Peter pretty much ignores the three Hale siblings for the rest of the day, barely speaks to them unless it’s absolutely necessary and when he does he’s all icy politeness. It’s fine, Derek will take that over the possible alternatives any day of the week. If his parents notice a change in Peter’s behaviour, they don’t say anything; Derek’s fairly certain they’re oblivious though.

Later that night, when everyone else is asleep he’s sitting at his desk composing a reply to Stiles in his notebook when there’s a light tap at the door. For one moment his heart sinks and he feels sure it’s Peter. He sits there, paralysed by indecision, when the knock sounds again, and Laura calls out, “Pssst, it’s me, let me in.”

Derek scrambles out of his chair and opens the door. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, I just- I can’t sleep.”

He opens the door a little wider, by way of invitation, and she slouches past him and flops down on his bed, blowing a deep sigh. “Helluva day, bro.”

Derek nods. He takes a seat back at his desk, he’s basically finished his letter to Stiles anyway, but he adds a couple of final sentences, signs it and closes the book, placing it carefully in his desk drawer. Then he spins round in his chair to face her. Laura’s staring at the canopy of his four poster bed, her arms tucked behind her head, but he can wait, he knows she’s got something on her mind and she’ll talk about it when she’s ready.

“Y’know,” she says slowly, “I was thinking. You told Peter you’d write an article about him.”

“Yeah.”

She swallows, still staring up at the canopy. “I think you should do it anyway.”

“But, I said I wouldn’t unless he-”

“No, I mean. I think you should write an article, make it a feature, on bullying on- well- psychological abuse, really. You don’t have to _name_ Peter, it’s just-” she pauses for a long moment, struggling to find the words. “I was thinking about what you said to him. That if he’s been this much of a dick to you and me there are probably others, and then I got to wondering if there are other kids at Hogwarts in similar situations. I don’t mean because of Peter-” she says quickly, “I mean, what if there are other kids who are being bullied by an adult or by someone they should be able to trust.”

“What would I say?”

“I dunno, just write about how you coped with it?”

“Badly, you mean?” Derek’s only half joking.

Laura leans up resting on her elbows and scowls at him. “Do you think there’s a right way to deal with this shit? I don’t know, maybe we didn’t handle it the best way, but sometimes I think people just want to know they’re not the only ones, that someone knows what they’re going through. That they’re not alone. And besides, if there isn’t some way of helping kids in these situations, well, shouldn’t there be?  Isn’t that the job of a good journalist? To shine a light on things that need fixing? To make people sit up and pay attention.”

He bites his lip, tries to imagine writing that article. Publishing it. What it would be like. What it would _mean._ “Y-You’re asking a lot,” he says, eventually. “It- It isn’t going to be easy to write that-- to relive it.”

“I get that. I do. It-It wasn’t just you he was like that with.”

And he knows that, god, he _knows._ As soon as Laura had taken his side, aged ten, Peter had turned on her too. This hasn’t been easy on either of them. Her forceful personality just meant she handled it better, or at least, she seemed to.

“I know I threatened Peter with it, but-” he sniffs loudly and swallows round the lump that’s appeared in his throat. “I d-don’t know if I’m th-there yet. Most of the t-time I try not to think a-about the s-stuff he says to m-me. It’s- It’s easier.” He rubs the heel of his hand against his eyes.

“Hey-Hey,” Laura gets up and comes over to him, wraps her arms around in him a hug. “Sorry, I’m not trying to pressure you, okay? I’m just asking you to consider it.” She offers him a small smile. “Circe, I’d try and do it myself, but we both know you’re the better writer here.”

He hugs her back tight and battles down the panic that’s rising in his chest, focuses on his breathing, on Laura, on her steady heartbeat.

“I’m really proud of you, bro. You did good today.”

“I hope so. I keep thinking I should’ve just punched him.” Derek confesses dolefully. “But I just- I couldn’t.”

Laura sighs. “I’m not gonna lie. It’s a _fucking_ satisfying thing to do. But your way worked too.”

“For now.” Derek says with a deep sense of foreboding. Because to be honest, he isn’t sure they’ll ever really be rid of Peter. That isn’t how life works. Even if he never sees him again, he’ll still carry Peter’s words with him for the rest of his life. They’re a fundamental part of who he is, of how he sees himself. That’s just how it is.  “If I do what you suggest and write this story, Peter’s going to be pissed, even if I don’t out him in it, and if mother and father read it they’re going to ask questions, and Cora’s here by herself a lot of the time and we won’t be here to protect her if Peter-”

“So, maybe it doesn’t have to be about your experiences directly. Maybe it could just be more general. Shit. I don’t know, ignore me. I just-” she scrubs a hand over her face. “I want to do _something_ , but I know I can’t and it’s fucking frustrating _.”_

“I know but-”

“And I know what you’re saying about Cora, but given all we’ve discovered in the last twenty-four hours I’m pretty sure she can take care of herself.”

“She’s ten years old, Laura.”

“I know.”

“He tried to hex a ten year old.”

“I _know,_ okay. I was joking.” She sighs. “I’m not saying there aren’t issues with writing it- I just- will you think about it?”

He puffs out his cheeks, blows out a deep breath. “Okay. I-I will.”

“That’s all I ask.” She gives his shoulders another squeeze. “Hey, I don’t suppose I could convince you to play a quick game of chess?” She waggles her eyebrows.

“You’ll win easily, and we both know it.”

“I know,” she smiles beatifically, “But I need the ego boost, Cora’s been kicking my arse these last few days. I’m beginning to have a crisis of confidence.”

“Fine,” he huffs, rolling his eyes. “You set up the pieces though.”

She grins. “You’re my favorite brother, have I ever told you that?”

“Not enough.”

 

-

 

Life returns to normal after Christmas, or, as normal as it ever is at Hale Hall. His parents bury themselves in work and he and his sisters are left to amuse themselves, play board games, read books or go for walks along the lake. Derek and Stiles write to each other, he sketches out a few articles for the Beacon, and thinks about Laura’s suggestion. It niggles at him, eating away at his mind whenever he’s awake. There are a hundred reasons why he shouldn’t do it, and one reason why he should: Somewhere, deep down inside, he knows it’s the right thing to do. Not because it would be cathartic, not because he wants to revenge himself on Peter, but because he knows, deep in the darkest places inside himself that he can’t be the only one. How many other students at Hogwarts over the years have dreaded going home? How many others have been picked on by someone they should have been able to trust? Laura’s right, even if all he does is shine a light on it, shouldn’t he do that? _Fuck._

He lays awake at night tossing and turning, unable to let it go. He finds himself turning over events in his mind, writing the article in his head again and again. He can’t sleep for thinking about it. The idea has wormed it’s way into his subconscious and he knows from experience that the only way to exorcise it now is to write it down, so, in the end, he does. He stays up all night, writing and editing and writing again. Then he sits on it for a few days. Then goes back to it, reads it, edits and rewrites again. He spends all his spare time on it and finally, two days before he’s supposed to return to Hogwarts, he stays up all night, writing like a man possessed, he writes until the sun creeps up over the horizon, and when he finally puts his quill down he _knows_ he’s finished. He has that feeling he’s learned to identify over the years, like he’s finally written it out of his system, and he isn’t ready to publish it yet. Isn’t sure if he ever _will_ be, but if he were _going_ to, he knows this would be it, and for now, at least, that has to be enough.

He reads it through one last time and then places it carefully in his drawer next to his notebook and locks it tight, then crawls into his bed and falls into a dead asleep.

When he finally wakes up it’s close to midday, and his stomach’s growling at him, so he scrapes himself out of bed, pulls on the clothes he was wearing yesterday, and stumps downstairs to rustle up some food. He says good morning to Pippy, makes himself a sandwich and the strongest coffee he can and carries it through to the dining room to eat it, because he knows if his mother finds him eating it in the living room she’ll be pissed.

He isn’t actually expecting to see his mother. Most days she’s locked away in her study or out at the ministry, but he’s only been sitting in the dining room for five minutes when she joins him at the table, carrying a bundle of papers with a ministry of magic logo on, and a cup of tea.

“Derek!” she says, “Tell me that isn’t your breakfast.”

He winces guiltily. “M-More of a b-brunch?” he says, taking a bite of his sandwich.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, to be a teenager again. Have you seen your sisters this morning?”

He shakes his head, because his mouth is full. His mother reads through the parchment in front of her, distracted. “God knows what they were doing earlier, but I think I heard an explosion coming from Cora’s room. They seemed to be laughing about it though.”

“Exploding snap?” Derek suggests.

“I don’t think so.” She purses her lips looking down at her paper and an awkward silence falls between them. Derek wolfs down the rest of his sandwich and chugs his coffee quick, because he’s just spent three days pouring his soul onto parchment and he doesn’t want to sit here with her making polite conversation, not really. He’s just considering sneaking out and finding his sisters, when his mother looks up again. “Heard anything from Kira so far this holiday?”

“Uh- y-yeah.” They’ve been writing to each other on and off. He even told her about what happened with Peter, and Laura’s subsequent suggestion and she’d written back and told him in no uncertain terms he shouldn’t feel any pressure. _When it comes to this, you don’t owe anyone anything, Derek,_ she’d written, _So just do what’s right for you_.

His mother flashes him a distracted smile. “Good. I’m pleased. She’s such a nice girl.”

“She is. She’s a good _friend.”_ He emphasises this word, because he knows where conversations like this with his mother _lead_. She can’t seem to get it through her head that it’s possible for them to have a wholly platonic friendship.

“I know, I know. You don’t feel that way about her. You keep telling me. I just hope you don’t wake up one day and realize that you’ve lost an opportunity to-”

“I’m gay.” He doesn’t know who looks more surprised by his revelation, him or his mother. He hadn’t meant to say it, well, he had eventually, but he hadn’t planned to say it just then, his feelings are all too close to the surface though, and he can’t seem to rein them in. All he can do now is stare at her with wide eyes.

“You- you’re gay?” she repeats faintly, the parchment in her hands flutters to the table.

He nods, feels his ears burning. “S-So, uh, n-n-n-no r-r-risk of m-me,” he swallows, takes a deep breath, “r-r-regretting l-lost opportunities with K-Kira, b-because I r-really only f-fancy g-guys.” He shrugs helplessly, ears burning.

His mother sits there, completely frozen, her mouth hanging open. He isn’t sure what to do. He isn’t entirely sure what he _expects_ her to do. He pushes back from the table and stands. “I’m g-gonna go f-find L-Laura and Cora.” He jerks a thumb toward the door. “I’ll uh-”

“Does Kira _know_?”

Derek fights the urge to roll his eyes, instead he shrugs. “That I’m g-gay? Sure.”

“And your sisters? They know too?”

He nods again. She bites her lip, still staring at him, and he can’t read her. He isn’t sure what’s going on in her mind right now.

“How long have you been-” her voice trails off.

“G-Gay?” he finishes for her. “P-Pretty much m-my whole life.”

She offers him a faint smile. “I was going to say ‘out.’”

“Oh,” he swallows. “Well, I mean, I t-told Kira when I w-was thirteen, and she w-was the f-first person I ever- uh- told so.”

“Thirteen,” his mother echoes softly. “Right.”

“I t-told Laura like two d-days later.” He offers by way of reassurance. “She s-said she already knew because I used to tell her I was going to marry Martin Miggs the Mad M-Muggle, y’know f-from the comic book. I d-don’t know if she’s j-joking though.”

His mother manages a weak smile. “Sounds like Laura.”

Derek nods. “Well I should-” he jerks his thumb toward the door again and turns to leave.

“You could have said something, you know.”

He feels his hands bunch into fists, he turns to face her slowly, swallows. “C-Could I?” Because the truth is, he’s never known that, not really, and her assumption that he _should_ makes a white hot jolt of anger surge through him. He isn’t sure what his face looks like but his mother flinches when she meets his eyes. And he’s still angry, so fucking mad, but also so tired, so fucking tired of this fucking dysfunctional family. He doesn’t have the words to deal with her, with this. With any of it. He turns to leave again.

“I’m sorry, Derek.”

He stops still, stiff, his back to her, hands still balled into fists. Takes a deep breath, and he’s shaking, he can _feel_ himself shaking but he can’t stop.

“You should have been able to tell me sooner, you should have felt that you could-” She trails off, guilty, takes a deep breath and then continues, “but you didn’t and- and I’m sorry. It’s just, your father and I, we have a lot on, work is always so-- and you’re away at school and-” He turns to look at her, one eyebrow raised and her voice dies in her throat. “There’s no excuse. If you felt you couldn’t tell us then-”

“It’s fine-” he says, even though it isn’t. Not really, and they both know it, but he doesn’t want to stand there for half an hour listening to her rambling apologies, he doesn’t want to listen while his mother twists his sexuality into a stick to beat herself with. Because fuck it, he’s happy with who he is, he doesn’t need that shit. And anyway, if it isn’t fine now between the two of them, maybe it could be. He wants to believe that it could be. That somehow they could patch this relationship up eventually.

She nods jerkily. “Okay. Well, you want to see your sisters and I shan’t keep you.” She ducks her head, picks up her parchment with unseeing eyes. She looks smaller somehow.

He hovers uncertainly, watching her.

He wants to turn away and leave her to it, wants, on some level, to let her wallow in the realization of her own inadequacies, but he can’t _quite_ bring himself to do it.

From here he can see the parchment in her hand trembling like a leaf in the breeze. It's the first time he's seen her unable to concentrate on work, maybe ever. He clears his throat. “I h-have a-uh a b-boyfriend.”

She meets his gaze, eyes glassy, and clears her throat. “I see,” she says, voice rough and scratchy, “What’s his name?”

“It’s uh- Stiles.”

She nods slowly, a small smile of recognition creeping across her face. “The Quidditch Captain?”

“G-Gryffindor Quidditch Captain.” Derek clarifies.

“I-” She closes her eyes, ducks her head, exhales shakily. When she opens her eyes again and meets his gaze her eyes are wet, but her voice is steady. “I would love to meet him, Derek. Any time you want him to visit us, he’s always welcome.”

“Th-Thank-you.” He ducks his head in acknowledgment. And honestly? He isn’t sure how he feels about it, thinks he maybe wants to hold off on that for a while for his own sanity, but the offer is nice, it’s something. It’s better than he thought it would go. That’s important, right?

He makes his way upstairs to discover his sisters sprawled on the floor in Laura’s room playing wizard chess.

Laura looks up when he comes in, takes one look at him and says, “Are you okay? You look kind of pale.”

Cora looks up then, “He’s fine, stop trying to distract from the fact that I’m winning, _again._ ”

Laura rolls her eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she says to Derek.

He slumps into her desk chair. “I don’t know. I-uh I think so?”

“What happened?”

“I may have just accidentally come out-”

“Accidentally?” She scrabbles to sit up straighter. “To our _mother_?”

He shrugs. Nods. He still can’t take it in.

“Only you, Der-Bear,” Laura says. “Make yourself comfortable and tell us all about it.”

 

o0o

 

On the day he’s due to return to Hogwarts, Stiles hugs his dad tight, buries his face in his dad’s shoulder and wills himself not to cry. His dad hugs back so hard Stiles thinks he might have bruises. They both stand there for a long while, before his dad finally claps him on the back with a sigh and says, “Well, kiddo. I’m gonna miss you.”

“I’m gonna miss you too.”

His dad swipes his nose with the back of his sleeve and looks away. “I just wish there was some way we could keep in contact better.”

Of course that’s when Stiles realizes he _has_ a way of keeping in contact with his dad. If he can enchant a pair of notebooks so that and he and Derek can keep in contact, he can _definitely_ do that for him and his dad. No question. And, okay, it’s kind of rushed, they have a frantic five minutes searching the house for something, _anything_ , that will serve the purpose, but they _manage_ it, and, when Stiles finally touches the portkey and feels that hook pulling at his belly button dragging him thousands of miles across continents and oceans, he knows, for the first time since he started at Hogwarts, that he’s going to be able to keep in contact with his dad regularly throughout the term. He feels good. He knows they’re going to miss each other, but he knows they’ll be okay.

Still, by the time he’s dragged all his bags to platform 9 and ¾’s he’s feeling pretty choked up, and he wonders, really _wonders_ , if he’s about to be homesick for the first time in _years._

The feeling doesn’t last too long though, because before he can dwell on it Scott bounds over to him and tackle-hugs him _hard_ , sending him careening into his own luggage and he only just manages to keep his feet.

“Good Christmas?” Scott asks, once they’ve finished their incredibly manly bro-hug and slapped each other on the back a few times for good measure.

“Yeah, real good, actually. The best. You?”

“Good. I got a new broom.”

“Awesome! What type?”

“It’s a Lightning Strike, and okay, it isn’t the newest but it’s miles better than my old one.” Scott beams at him, one arm slung around Stiles’ shoulder. “This term is going to be all about Quidditch.”

“And N.E.W.T’s,” Stiles reminds him.

“Sshhh. Don’t spoil it.” They make their down the platform, bags bumping awkwardly together as they weave in and out of the seething mass of students and flustered parents.

“It’s the final countdown now, y’know?” Scott says. “We’ve got this journey, the one back home again before Easter and then only two more after that, and we’ll never travel on the Hogwarts Express again.”

“ _Oh my God_ , shut up,” Stiles says, elbowing him in the ribs. “What are you trying to do? Make me cry?” He clutches his chest.

Scott places his hand over his heart, face solemn. “I can’t help it, this is the last time we get the train back to Hogwarts after Christmas. Ever. _Ever._ ”

“Merlin, if you’re gonna do this the entire trip I’m not going to sit with you.”

“You _have_ to sit with me. It’s tradition. And we have blow all our money on pumpkin pasties and chocolate frogs before we even get to Hogwarts. You know this. Don’t ruin it, man.”

“Fine,” Stiles says, with a put upon sigh. “But stop with all the ‘It’s the last time’ shit, or I’m gonna need a cheering charm to get through this.”

“Aw, you’re such a sap.”

“Says the guy who almost cried when they didn’t serve treacle tart at the Halloween feast this year.”

“Don’t be a dick, man. It was our last Halloween feast. They _always_ serve treacle tart at Halloween and we have to eat it first before we touch any other food, just like we did in our first year, it’s like, the _law_.”

Stiles snorts. “The law.”

“It _is!_ ” Scott insists, “Or at least it’s a tradition. Like how you always wear the same socks for every house Quidditch match!”

Stiles sighs deeply. “Ahhh, my lucky socks. Maybe, once we’ve played our last house match, I’ll finally wash them.”

Scott stops dead on the platform, horrified. “Merlin, don’t do that, what if it’s the dirt that’s lucky? Or the combination of the dirt and the sock? You don’t _know_. You might ruin it, and then you’ll never be able to play Quidditch again.”

“You’re such a dork,” Stiles says, ruffling his hair. “Come on, let’s go find a seat.”

“Did you hear much from Derek over the holidays?” Scott says as they heave their bags onto the train.

“Yeah,” Stiles grins, “Loads.”

“Cool. I _knew_ you two were going to be good for each other.”

“What about you? Did you see anyone?”

Scott grimaces. “Not really. Well, I mean, uh-- Lydia wrote a couple of times, but-”

“Lydia wrote to you?” Stiles says, glancing at him.

“It isn’t like that, okay? When you two were fighting she kind of latched onto me and kept grilling me for information about you and now well-- apparently we’re friends.” He doesn’t _precisely_ look happy about it. “She’s been coaching me through some stuff for Transfiguration, so-”

“That’s… cool?”

Scott sighs morosely. “Is it? It’s difficult to tell. I’m equal parts terrified of her and infuriated by her to be honest, she drives me up the wall.” And Scott’s kind of famously laid back, but Lydia _really_ isn’t and Stiles can see how it would be that way between them.

“Don’t worry,” Stiles says, “you’ll get used to it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

o0o

 

Derek and Laura say goodbye to their mother and Cora on the platform. Derek hugs Cora tight, and promises her he’ll send her an owl at least once a week. She rolls her eyes at him, but she she seems deeply pleased. Laura disappears into the crowds as soon as she sees a friend, and Derek trails after her, dragging his bags behind him. It’s always so busy but Kira or Stiles must be about _somewhere,_ about. He’s beginning to lose hope when suddenly the air is knocked out of him as Kira cannonballs into him from behind, he drops his bags to the floor as she clings to his back like a limpet. “I got an interview,” she hisses into his ear.

“Oh my god!” he cries, grinning hugely. “Get down so I can hug you properly.”

She clambers off him and then launches herself at him again, holding him tight.

“I knew you could do it, I’m so proud of you,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss into her hair.

“Thank-you!” she says, eyes shining. “To be honest, I’m kind of freaking out, it’s a really big deal. Their interview process is intense and there’s so much to _learn_. I think I might be kind of crazy trying to juggle that and N.E.W.T’s”

“I’m definitely going to help you. Whatever you want. We’ll go over questions together. Practice as much as you need. You’re going to nail it, I know it.”

She beams up at him. “Awww, thanks, Der. You’re the best.”

They both pick up their bags and make their way to the train, Kira slips her arm through his, and Derek knows he’s home.

 

-

 

As prefects, they’re supposed to do a patrol of the carriages. _Supposed_ being the operative word. The last time he’d been patrolling the carriages though, he’d ended up squirrelled away in one, making out with Stiles. He’d stumbled out half-hard and achingly happy, but he can’t allow himself to do that again, he has _responsibilities_.

So, this time he and Kira wander the corridors, peering into the snug compartments to check on the other students and he doesn’t seen Stiles at all. Which is probably for the best. Maybe.

Except for the part where he’s kind of desperate to see him, kinda sorta wants to grab him, throw him up against the wall of a compartment and kiss him stupid. Maybe rub himself up against him until-

“You have that look on your face again,” Kira says.

“What look?”

She arches an eyebrow. “You _know_ what look. You were thinking about Stiles, weren’t you?”

“Whaaaat? Nooooo. I mean-” he laughs awkwardly. “That wasn’t- I wouldn’t.”

Kira shakes her head fondly. “It’s okay. It’s kind of nice to see you all loved up. I take it you wrote to each other loads over Christmas?”

Derek ducks his head, shrugs. “I mean- not loads-” Basically every day. He isn’t sure that counts as _loads._

“You don’t have to be embarrassed or play it down. You’re happy. I’m happy for you.”

“I-I know. I just, don’t want to be boring about it.”

“Hah. Don’t worry about it, I’ll tell you if you get there. Personally, I can’t wait to give Stiles the talk.”

“The talk?”

“The ‘If you hurt my best friend I’ll cut off your balls and turn them into a necklace.’ That talk. I’ve been practicing it.”

“I think they’d work better as earrings,” Derek and Kira both whip round. “My balls,” Stiles clarifies. “I mean, they’re a bit hair-”

“Oh my god, stop!” Kira throws her hands up, laughing.

Stiles smirks. Derek shakes his head, he can feel the tips of his ears burning and mourns the fact that out of the three of them, he’s the only one whoever gets embarrassed talking about this shit. His best friends _suck_. And that gives him pause, because is he really thinking about Stiles as one of his best friends now? Is that a thing? It only takes a moment for him to realize that yes, yes it is.

“Hey,” Stiles says, his eyes going soft as he looks at Derek.

“H-H-Hey.”

Kira looks between them and sighs dramatically. “I think I’m going to go finish the patrol, I’ll find you again when I’m done. Derek, you owe me. Stiles, nice to see you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Uh- you too.” He hasn’t taken his eyes off of Derek.

“Kira, are y-you sure?” Derek asks, half turning to her, but she’s already disappearing down the narrow corridor. When he looks back, Stiles is closer than he remembered. Derek blinks at him in surprise.

“I missed you,” Stiles murmurs.

“We wrote every d-day,” Derek says. “Often several _times._ ” He winces. “I-I m-mean. I m-missed you t-too, obviously, b-but the writing was-”

Stiles shakes his head, smiles and huffs out a sigh, “You want me to go back to my carriage and write you some more? Because I can if that’s what you want.”

Derek swallows. “I-uh-” It is _not_ what he wants. Not at _all._

“Because personally,” Stiles continues, stepping a little closer, “as much as I enjoyed the penpal thing, and I _did._ I really kind of missed doing this.” He slips his hand into Derek’s, squeezing it tightly.

Heat rushes to Derek’s cheeks. “I-I missed that too,” he admits.

“Yeah?”

Derek nods. He can’t quite bring himself to look away. Stiles’ eyes are shining, molten bright with laughter and affection.

“Come on,” Stiles tugs his hand, leads him through the cramped train corridors, through carriage after carriage and Derek doesn’t even think to question it. He half thinks they’re going to find a secluded carriage and make out, but instead Stiles leads him to where Scott is sitting surrounded by Pumpkin Pasty crumbs and empty Chocolate Frog wrappers, one hand resting on his belly. He looks up as they enter.

“We have to rescue Scott from himself,” Stiles says, “He’s going to a dark place.”

Scott scowls at Stiles and then pointedly turns to Derek and says, “Ignore him. It’s great to see you, Derek.”

“Uh- You too.” Stiles takes a seat opposite Scott and pulls Derek down next to him, so they’re sitting side by side, pressed right up against each other, hands still clutched tight.

“Ugh, I think I ate too much,” Scott says, cradling his belly tenderly.

“Can’t happen, dude.”

“You don’t understand. It’s a sign, I’m getting old, that’s what it is. I don’t have the stamina for this shit anymore.”

“See, I told you it’s a mid-seventh year crisis,” Stiles says to Derek in a stage whisper.

“Wh-Why?”

“He’s obsessing over the fact that it’s one of the last journeys we get on the Hogwarts Express.”

“We’re growing up,” Scott moans. “I am not prepared.”

Stiles shakes his head, amused, he nudges Derek’s arm. “Tell him about Cora’s new broom, the one she got for Christmas.”

“Broom?” Scott cracks open an eye.

“M-My little sister got a Cirrus 360 for Christmas.”

Scott snaps to attention immediately, crisis temporarily forgotten. “Merlin, the new Cirrus is amazing, I was in Diagon Alley just after Christmas and I saw it in Quality Quidditch Supplies. It was so _sleek_ , they used a combination of blackthorn and alder which is supposed to be _amazing._ Can she fly?”

Derek shrugs, “I think she’s p-pretty good, although I haven’t seen her try it out yet. Not that it will matter to us. She w-won’t start at Hogwarts until next year.”

“Oh Circe,” Scott says morosely, slumping back down in his seat. “No more House Quidditch. No more practices, no more-”

Stiles cuts in, “We’ve still got, like, two more terms, Scotty.”

Scott sighs heavily and opens his mouth to respond, just then the door to their carriage opens. “There you are,” Lydia Martin stands there hands on her hips. “I thought for sure you’d be in a sugar coma by now.” She eyes the Chocolate Frog wrappers disdainfully and sniffs. Scott struggles to sit up a bit straighter.

“Happy New Year, Lyds,” Stiles says, “Come join us.” A complicated look passes between Scott and Stiles, one Derek can’t quite parse but Stiles squeezes his hand firmly, and grins at him, and he feels warmth blossom in his chest. He knows he doesn’t have to worry. Maybe it should be awkward. Stiles had a crush on her for years, but a lot has happened in the last few weeks, and Derek might not ever _warm_ to Lydia, but he isn’t intimidated by her either.

She raises an eyebrow at Scott, who sighs and sweeps the wrappers and crumbs off the seat next to him and onto the floor. “Thank-you,” she says, and takes a seat next to him. Sitting prim and proper, gaze fixed on Scott. “You have chocolate,” she says, “on your cheek, just--there.” She gestures at Scott’s cheek with her finger and he wipes at furiously. “No, you’ve missed it, here let me.” Scott glares in Stiles direction as Lydia reaches forward and rubs at his cheek with her thumb.

“Thanks,” says Scott through gritted teeth.

“It’s fine,” she says, turning her attention to Derek and Stiles. “Derek, did you manage to do the extra reading for Arthimancy? I have some thoughts about Wenlock’s ideas in The New Theory of Numerology that I want to run past you.”

Derek swallows. “I, uh, I did.”

“Of course you did,” Stiles says under his breath. Derek spares him a reproachful glance. “Hey, I think it’s sexy that you like to do all your homework well in advance.”

Derek adjusts his glasses with his free hand and turns back to Lydia with a deep sigh. “W-What did you want to t-talk about?” he asks. Even as he does it Stiles’ thumb presses against his knuckles where their hands are still joined, rubbing back and forward across it in a soothing motion. Derek gives his hand a squeeze to let him know he isn’t really pissed and it’s nice, it’s _easy._

Derek and Lydia are deep in conversation about arithmancy, when, a few minutes later, the door to their compartment opens and Kira bursts in. She stumbles to a stop as soon as she spies Scott. “H-Hey!” She stutters, “U-Uh- Hi!”

“Oh hey--uh, hi, Kira,” Scott says, blushing. And it’s clear in that moment that there’s still some residual awkwardness left over from their conversation before Christmas where they’d decided to just be friends.

Kira looks about the compartment awkwardly.

“Should I-” she makes an abortive gesture to the corridor behind her.

“No! God, no. There’s plenty of room,” Stiles says quickly.

Scott nods vigorously and Derek squishes along in his seat a little to make room for her. She shoots him a nervous glance and then sits down. Immediately he loops his free arm through hers and squeezes it to his side reassuringly and she smiles gratefully. A slightly awkward silence descends between them.

“Y-You should- uh- tell them your news,” Derek says, nudging her.

“Oh, right.” Kira bites her lip. “You remember I was filling out an application for for an internship for the magical creature sanctuary in Norway? Well, I just found out this morning that I got an interview.” She smiles awkwardly.

“No way!” Scott and Stiles say in unison.

“Congratulations!” Lydia says with a small smile.

“It’s pretty nerve-wracking,” says Kira, resting her head on Derek’s shoulder. “It’s a prestigious place and a really difficult interview process.”

“You’re going to be great,” Scott says, sincerely. “I know it.”

Kira’s expression turns soft, fond, even. “Thanks,” she says, “that means a lot.”

Scott’s smiles at her warmly, and maybe it’s Derek’s imagination, but a little of the tension between them seems to bleed away. Yeah, they may not ever date, but they’re going to be friends, they’re going to be _fine._

Lydia clears her throat. “Scott, if you clear these crumbs off the seat I’ll set up the Wizard Chess.”

“Fine,” he grumbles, fighting a smile, “But don’t complain when I win.”

“He’s really good, Lyds,” warns Stiles.

Lydia flicks her hair over one shoulder and arches an eyebrow. “We’ll see,” she sniffs.

Scott wins the first game easily, to everyone’s surprise except, perhaps, Stiles’. Lydia comes back harder in the second and manages to eek out a victory but it’s a war of attrition. They’re about to set up the pieces for a deciding match, but the train’s already pulling into the station and for a while everything is chaos while people try and get back to their own carriages and find their bags.

And, okay, maybe Derek didn’t get to spend much one-on-one time with Stiles, but he can’t bring himself to care, because he knows that they’ll see more than enough of each other in the coming days and weeks and months. They’ve got all the time in the world. He’s sure of it.

 

o0o

 

Stiles joins the rest of the Gryffindors in the Great Hall at dinner time, even though he isn’t particularly hungry because he’s still on California time.

Still, he pulls up a chair next to Scott, who’s already filling his plate with food, having recovered completely from the Chocolate Frog induced food coma on the train earlier.

“Oh my god,” mumbles Scott, “They have roast beef, this is the _best._ I didn’t know I could be this hungry.”

Stiles shakes his head fondly, his gaze already flicking over to the Hufflepuff table to check on Derek, who-- isn’t there. Kira’s present, surrounded by her fellow Hufflepuffs, but Derek is nowhere to be seen. Stiles’ shoulders sag a little. He’d been hoping to at least catch a glimpse of his boyfriend this evening, but it turns out to be in vain, because Derek doesn’t show for the entire meal.

It’s only after dinner is over and he’s trailing back to the Gryffindor common room, half listening to Scott rant about Lydia’s sneaky moves in Wizard Chess, that he puts two and two together.

He stops dead in the corridor, struck by how _obvious_ the answer is. Scott’s walked a few paces on, then stops when he realizes Stiles isn’t with him and half turns. “You okay?”

“I- I have to go. I’ll- uh- catch up with you in the common room, later, okay?” Stiles says, he’s already turning on his heel.

“Sure,” calls Scott. He sounds amused. “Say hi to Derek for me!”

Stiles bites his lip against a smile and quickens his pace, because he knows, he just _knows_ where his dork of a boyfriend is, and the more he thinks about it, the more exasperated he feels.

He doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry as he turns into the library, weaving through shelves stuffed to overflowing with books, because if he’s right, then this is actually ridiculous.

He turns the final corner and stops, taking in the picture before him.

Derek sits at their old table, books spread out before him, his head bent low over his parchment, glasses sliding down his nose. He hasn’t noticed Stiles’ arrival at all, it's de ja vu, just like that first night when Stiles stumbled across him here, all those weeks ago.

Except it isn’t like that at all.

Not really.

Now it’s so much more. Warmth blossoms in Stiles’ chest, he’s buzzing with energy, vibrating with it, feels like he’s going to burst right out of his skin, just from the pure, unbridled surge of affection he feels coursing through him.

He clears his throat and Derek looks up, and smiles, soft, when he catches Stiles watching him.

“Homework, huh?” Stiles says, gesturing to all the paperwork.

Derek leans back in his chair, scratches absently at his jaw. “S-Stuff for The Beacon.”

Stiles drifts to where Derek’s sitting, leans back against the edge of the table, brushing up against him.  “Ohhh wow,” he says in exaggerated surprise, arching an eyebrow, “You write for The Beacon?”

Derek narrows his eyes, and Stiles can see the moment he remembers the echo of this conversation: They’ve been here before not all that long ago, but it feels like an age.

“Welll, I'm the uh- e-editor actually, but s-sometimes I write for it too,” he says, pushing his glasses up his nose, green eyes dancing with amusement. There’s a smudge of ink on his cheek, and Stiles reaches out unhesitating, rubs at it gently with his thumb and Derek leans into it, warm and giving.

Stiles sighs, dips his head, closer, lips just a whisper away from Derek's. Close to where he wants to be. “So,” he says, voice rough, “what are you working on now? Campaigning for better food? Waging war against the amount of homework we get? Reporting on my spectacular Quidditch skills?” He waggles his eyebrows.

Derek shakes his head minutely, meeting his gaze, a wry smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and, in the end, he doesn’t bother to answer, instead he reaches out and grabs the collar of Stiles’ robe, pulling him in for a long kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's all folks. There are half assed plans for a sequel set 5 years in the future, but I'm not sure when I'll get round to writing it, so if you want you can hit me up on [tumblr](http://yodas-yo-yo.tumblr.com/) where I will be happy to reveal any and all headcanons for you as to what the future holds in this 'verse. Thanks so much for all your support and comments, I literally wouldn't have finished this fic without you guys and, uh, I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> P.S. The last conversation that Stiles and Derek have in this fic is basically a mirror of the one they have when Stiles first stumbles across Derek in the library. I'm pointing it out, because I'm betting some of you haven't read that chapter in about a year, and I don't really expect you to remember it, lol.


End file.
